


You Knock Me Out

by iaquilam



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, F/F, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Galaxy Gals, Hurt/Comfort, I mean u guys know what these kids are dealing with, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Tree Bros, everyone/getting the help they need/making a realistic recovery, so canon-typical warnings I guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-12-07 11:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 86,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11622990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iaquilam/pseuds/iaquilam
Summary: The printer is whirring when he steps inside the lab; when he glances at it, the paper is headed withDear Evan Hansenso he snatches it up.Evan Hansen is hunched at one of the computer desks, logging out of his google docs account and chewing on his thumbnail. Connor watches him for a moment, struggling for something to say, and then blurts out, “So what happened to your arm?”Connor Murphy doesn't kill himself. There's an overdose of pills that doesn't get taken, help that finally gets offered, and friendships formed through group chats and unlikely circumstances. And everyone learns to live for the moments that are full of a little bit of light.





	1. Prologue (Evan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so hello!! I ran out of deh fics to read and decided to write my own lmao. couple things before we get started:
> 
> 1) this fic is from Connor's pov but between each chapter there will be an "interlude" (basically like a mini-chapter) from other characters' povs so don't get confused when that happens.  
> 2) each update will consist of one interlude (or for the first update, the prologue) and one chapter; I don't have an update schedule yet but I will keep you posted  
> 3) as I wrote in the tags, this contains canon-typical warnings related to mental health, including descriptions of suicide attempts, panic attacks, etc. if that is a trigger for you, please stay safe and don't read this!!  
> 4) this is my first deh fic so lemme know if anything is ooc and all that jazz
> 
> all right that's all, go enjoy!

Today is Evan Hansen’s last day on earth. 

It’s as nice of a day as any to have as a last day—the sun is out, the birds are singing, and the breeze is rushing through the leaves far above him. The thought that he’s about to disturb the peace with his death makes him incredibly uncomfortable. Someone’s going to find him, and then it won’t be the park with the sun and the birds and the breeze anymore, it’ll always be the park where some guy killed himself. What seemed like such a good idea earlier suddenly seems selfish, like maybe he doesn’t deserve to die here, like maybe he’s ruining it for other people just like he ruins everything, like maybe this is the worst idea he’s ever had in his life and he should just stop being so selfish and he’s just messing everything up and—

Anyway. That’s as good of a reminder as he needs that this needs to be done. Whatever damage he does by dying here will be gone soon enough. Things will be better after today. 

When he puts his hand on the bark of the tree trunk, it’s warm from the sun and rough to his touch—familiar and comforting like—like—like—it knows what he’s about to do and it agrees with him. He presses his palm flat against the trunk and squints up at the sun, his fingers unconsciously fisting in the hem of his shirt. Did he remember to brush his hair? What if he falls in some really gross embarrassing position and people laugh when they find him? What if he doesn't die and he’s just paralyzed from the fall but when people find him they think he’s dead and so they bury him but he won’t be able to tell them because he’ll be paralyzed from the fall and then he’ll just suffocate in a coffin six feet under the ground and then—

He stops that train of thought. Digs his fingers into the roughness of the bark. Doctor Sherman says physical sensations can help him ground himself so he doesn’t go down the rabbit hole like that. It helps, sometimes. A little. Not enough. But today he just needs to stop thinking so he won’t chicken out of this. 

“Dear Evan Hansen,” he says aloud, and then winces at how weird and awkward it sounds in the silence. He sounds crazy. He is crazy. “Dear Evan Hansen,” he says again. “Today—today, uh, today is going to be a good day, and here—here’s why.”

There are any number of endings to that sentence, but he doesn’t finish it. He just stares up at the sun, one hand against the tree and the other twisting the hem of his polo. He can feel himself swaying a little, his eyes unfocusing. The warmth of the sun and the bark of the tree are so comforting and he wants one minute more, just one minute more where there’s no one to watch him or look at him or judge him and he just—he can just be quiet. Everything can just be quiet. 

He closes his eyes. 

When his arms reach up to start climbing, he isn’t spiraling anymore. He’s the calmest he’s been in weeks, maybe months. 

By the time he stops to catch his breath, he estimates he’s about twenty feet off the ground. He read online that you have about a fifty percent chance of surviving a fall three times your height depending on how you land. He’s over that right now, which means his chances are higher, but not enough. He wants to be certain. 

It’s just—he’s so tired. And it would be so easy to let go. 

When he stops again, the anxiety is starting to eat away at him. Maybe this was a bad idea. There are so many ways for it to go wrong. Maybe he should go home and ask his mom to schedule an appointment with Doctor Sherman—a funeral will be expensive, and whoever’s going to find him is going to be upset, and maybe he should just climb back down and forget about it. 

He guesses he’s forty, maybe fifty feet off the ground now. It looks very far away. 

Maybe he should give this up. But if he did, he’d have to go back to an empty house, start thinking about going back to a school that has never noticed him, begin worrying about applying to college and paying for it, submerge himself once again in the endless cycle of his stupid head and stupid anxiety and stupid, friendless, lonely life. 

He closes his eyes. 

_Dear Evan Hansen._

Maybe he should have written a note or something? It was probably really inconsiderate not to, his mom is probably going to blame herself, and—

_Today is going to be a good day._

—and what if Jared gets in trouble for this, what if people at school laugh at him for hanging out with stupid, awkward, dead Evan Hansen in the fall—

_And here’s why._

—what if no one finds him and he becomes one of those kids that have late-night murder mystery specials written about him and every time he comes on TV everyone laughs at his stupid gross face—

 _Because you’re going to let go._  

Who is he kidding? No one is going to remember him when he’s gone. He’s just going to disappear. 

He lets go. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES it's sad!! now go go go read chapter 1 (or like. chapter 2 because ao3 is gonna call this prologue chapter 1).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: some of the lines in this chapter are stolen directly from the musical (or, like, as directly from the musical as they can be considering I got them from watching one (1) bootleg, and reading a ton of canon-compliant fic). I don't own those lines. if you don't know, now you know.

Today is Connor Murphy’s last day on earth. It’s a fucking terrible one to have as a last day, but since a vast majority of Connor’s days are fucking terrible, he’s not going to let that stop him. He does wish that he could have done this over the summer, though—now he has to spend at least one day at school, because Cynthia is insisting that he attend the first day even though he snuck out of the house at five thirty this morning to get high in the backyard and he _knows_ she can smell it on him. 

Whatever. This is the last day he has to put up with this shit. He’ll go school if it means she stops bothering him about it. The less his family is worrying about him, the less they’ll supervise him, which means he’ll have more time to finally do it right this time. 

Today is a restless day, even with the weed, and his skin doesn’t feel like it fits right; he’s itching, irritable, ready to snap at any minute. He’s more likely to lose himself to the kind of rage that has Larry bellowing at him to calm down and Zoe locking her door on days like these, but he’ll still take them over the hollow ones. On a hollow day, he can’t get out of bed. On a hollow day, he’s not sure he’d even have the energy to go through with this, so it’s good that today he’s angry, toeing the line of violence. 

The meds they gave him weren’t a high enough dose, any idiot could have fucking seen that. But Larry had insisted they start off small because he was hoping it’d be a temporary thing. Whatever. They hadn't worked, so whenever Cynthia gave Connor his dose in the morning, he’d only pretended to take them and instead saved them in an empty pack of gum he kept in his dresser, waiting for the day he’d have enough for a lethal dose. Today is that day. 

The drive to school is silent except for Zoe’s shitty music—he’d totaled his car over the summer, which means that he, a senior, must suffer the indignity of having his younger sister drive him to school—but that’s nothing new. He’d be more surprised if she _had_ talked to him. God knows she hasn’t had anything to say to him in years, and he’s sane enough to realize that’s his own fucking fault. Right when they get into the car, he thinks that if today of all days is the moment she chooses to reach out to him, despite the fact she shouldn’t, despite the fact he doesn’t deserve it, he might—but no, she doesn’t say anything, because there’s no reason for her to, and he’s determined to do this. Nothing is going change that. 

The knowledge that he won’t have to go through this tomorrow lends him some measure of cheerfulness as he walks into the school. He sees the whispers, the people jumping out of his way as always, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Maybe that’s just the weed. As long as—

“Hey, Connor! Loving the new hair length. Very—” a pause, a snigger “—school shooter chic.”

Jared Kleinman is a fucking idiot who’s never had anything useful or clever to say in his entire life, and there is no strain of marijauna strong enough to make him seem any less annoying than he is. If Connor had his pills with him, he’d probably down them right now just to avoid talking to him. As it is, he takes a deep breath—for all the good that will do—and swings around to face Kleinman and the stupid fidgety kid he’s always with, pinning them with the most fearsome glare he can manage. 

Kleinman makes a dismissive gesture and a face that suggests _Connor_ is the idiot. “It was a joke?”

Sometimes, when Connor gets angry—like, punch you in the face, fling a printer at a teacher angry—he separates into two people. One that’s raging in his body, slamming his fist into walls and spitting out the most horrible things he can think to say, and one that’s hollowed out, watching what’s happening from outside his body with the most terrible sense of detachment. 

He can feel that happening now. He really, really doesn’t want that to happen now. What he should do is take another deep breath and just walk away. Pretend this didn’t happen. Keep his mind focused on the end of school bell, and the pack of gum that’s waiting for him in his dresser. 

“Yeah, no, it was funny,” Connor says flatly. “I’m laughing, can’t you tell?” He takes a quick step forward, his fists starting to clench at his side and _he needs to calm down_ — “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”

No matter what situation Connor is in, he always manages to make it a billion times worse. Consider it his speciality. 

Kleinman finally has the good sense to take a step back, but his expression is still mocking. “You’re such a freak.”

It’s at this moment that Kleinman’s fidgety friend lets out a nervous laugh poorly disguised as a cough. Connor rounds on him, white-hot fury filling up the edges of his vision because what right does this pathetic kid have to be laughing at him—

“The fuck are you laughing at?”

“Wh—I, no—“

“Stop _fucking_ laughing at me!” Connor can feel his nails biting into his palm; he unclenches one of his fists and curls it around the strap of his bag instead. He’s a second away from snapping, he can feel it. He needs to get rid of this fucking energy before he does something that’s going to end up with someone calling the school security. “You think I’m a freak?”

“No, I wasn’t—”

“ _You’re_ the fucking freak!” Connor snarls, and before he can stop himself, reaches out and shoves the kid to the ground before turning away and storming off. He hears the sound of impact as only a faint thud through the buzzing in his ears. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get home and take those pills and just—just fucking obliterate himself, just take himself out so this will never happen again, just fucking be _quiet_. 

The bell rings. He doesn’t go to first hour. 

***

The kid he shoved is in his AP Bio class. Connor hates biology, hadn’t wanted to take it, but Larry had told him he needed some AP courses in his schedule for senior year; they’d had a long and lengthy fight about it. In the end, Larry had gotten his way because Connor had just wanted to end the fucking fight when he saw Zoe hovering in the open doorway like she’d wanted to say something but was afraid to while Connor was in there. So he’d circled the first two classes on the AP list because it gave Larry what he wanted while still being passive aggressive about it. And he’d gone upstairs. And he’d heard Zoe timidly saying she needed a permission slip signed for forensics. And he’d felt like shit for making her scared to ask for something that simple in her own house. 

Whatever. The classes he’d chosen were Biology and English, probably because the list was alphabetical. And now the kid he shoved is in his second hour AP Bio class. Connor isn’t a huge fan of people laughing at him, so he’s not thrilled about it, but he reminds himself it’s only for today. 

Tomorrow this won’t be a problem.

But the kid doesn’t approach him. He sits on the other side of the room, near that busybody Alana Beck, with his head down like he’s hoping not to be noticed. He doesn’t come up to Connor and confront him about the morning. No one around him is talking to him. 

In that moment, Connor finds himself unsurprised that he doesn’t know the fidgety kid’s name. If Connor hadn’t been keeping an eye out for more mockery, he wouldn’t have noticed him at all. It’s like he’s trying to disappear. No wonder Connor doesn’t know him after years of going to the same school. In fact, he’s only now noticing that he has a broken arm even though he’d seen him this morning. 

So Connor ignores him. The stupid kid’s probably not going to bother him without Kleinman there to egg him on. He's probably just Kleinman’s idiotic sidekick or something, the sort of person who laughs at other people’s jokes but doesn’t make his own. 

Whatever. Tomorrow this won’t be a problem. 

They get put in groups for first day ice-breaker activities, which is stupid because it’s not that big of a school and they all know each other, and Connor leans back in his seat and stares down anyone who tries to ask him stupid questions like what his favorite color is. It works pretty well, maybe because no one actually wants to talk to him. The other three people in his group exclude him with hardly any effort, and Connor is left to his own devices, which mainly consist of him carving designs into his desk and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. He’s fucking tired. The restlessness from this morning is gone. 

They’re maybe fifteen minutes into the hour when Connor hears it. Kleinman’s friend is in the group behind him, and Connor has been idly listening to their half-hearted efforts to get through the ice-breakers because they’re the closest, and—well, the poor kid has a bad stutter. It’s awkward to even listen to him. So it’s really only a matter of time before some asshole that’s in his group makes a snide comment about it. 

And Kleinman’s friend—Hansen, Connor thinks his last name might be Hansen, now that he thinks about it—stammers out a half-inaudible statement of simultaneous apology and self-defense, trailing off halfway through like he’s realized no one’s listening. And then he fills the silence with a nervous laugh. 

Somewhere in the back of Connor’s bored, exhausted, half-high mind, he thinks _oh_. 

It happens a few more times during the class. And it’s never because he’s laughing at Connor. 

It twists something up inside of him, but he doesn’t realize what it is until he sees Hansen darting out of the class when the bell rings, shoulders hunched beneath his backpack and his books drawn close to his chest like armor. Like he can’t wait to get out of the classroom where some asshole made fun of the way he talked and he had no one to sit with. And yeah, Connor’s kind of an ass and he doesn’t _really_ care, but he does care enough to realize that he just attacked a kid over a stupid nervous tic without giving him a chance to explain. And that kind of feels like what people do to him. 

Whatever. Tomorrow this won’t be a problem. 

***

Seniors are allowed to leave campus for lunch—a kind of reconciliatory gift the administration offers them to make up for having to survive four years of high school, Connor supposes—and they take advantage of the privilege in droves, swarming to the school parking lot with excited grins and loud promises to the underclassmen that they’ll bring food back for them. It’s a tradition everyone takes part in. 

Well. Everyone with a car, anyway. Connor is planning to spend lunch in the bathroom or something. He doesn’t need the humiliation of trying to find somewhere to sit in the cafeteria, and he doesn’t have a lunch anyway. Zoe had threatened to leave without him this morning, and he’d forgotten to pack one. Whatever. He’s not that hungry, anyway. 

Someone taps him on the shoulder. He flinches and then looks down. Zoe is scowling up at him. 

“What,” he says, more of an accusation than a question. 

“Here,” she says, and holds out her hand. He raises an eyebrow, and she sighs. “ _Here_. My keys.”

“Your _what_.”

“My _keys_ ,” she says, more forcefully this time, and then, all in a rush: “Cause like it’s the first day of school and I figured that you’d like to go for lunch and you don’t have your car. And I saw that you forgot to pack a lunch.”

“You’re letting me take your car out for lunch?” 

Her scowl deepens. “Can you just, like, accept it instead of turning it into some big deal? I’m just trying to be nice or whatever.”

Connor is about to take offense at some part of this—any part will do—when he remembers how he’d half-hoped that she’d say something to him this morning. How he’d thought that she had no reason to say anything to him because he’s taken every reason she could have had. And here she is, offering him her car. Trying to be nice. 

“Okay.” The word is out of his mouth before he even consciously decides to accept the offer. 

“Okay,” she echoes, and puts the keys into his hand. There’s a plastic figurine from the Trolls movie dangling from the keychain. “Be careful; if there’s even a scratch on it when you bring it back I’ll kill you.”

He nods. 

“Okay, now go; you only have half an hour of lunch and you’ve already wasted five minutes of it standing here talking to me.”

He nods again and sets out towards the parking lot, the Trolls figurine swinging from his hand. He’s nearly out the door before he stops and turns back to where Zoe is standing at the end of the hallway. 

“Hey,” he says. She turns around. “Thanks, Zo.”

She lifts one hand in an awkward half-wave and disappears around the corner, her shoulders tense. She’s probably already texting Larry to ask if the insurance rate will go up if he crashes it. Maybe already googling “how to get the smell of pot out of my car.” Any minute now she’ll come running after him to take the keys back and—Connor stops himself right there. If he goes down that road, he’ll just make himself angry, and then he’ll probably end up crashing the car on purpose just to hurt her. And today is his last day, and he doesn’t want that to be the last interaction he has with his sister. 

Things haven’t been good between them in a long time. It’s mainly his fault, he knows that. It was him that smashed her guitar when she got a solo in jazz band last year and he thought she was just trying to make him look bad in front of their parents. It was him that smoked weed in the house before she had to leave for work so she got drug tested when she showed up for training. It was him that snapped during a particularly bad fight with Larry and lunged at her with closed fists. He doesn’t remember much from that night, only that he’d pounded on her locked door, that he’d listened to her sob behind it and screamed that he was going to tear it down and kill her. 

Yeah. Things haven't been good between them in a long time, and he does not deserve this car. It’s good that today is the last day she has to put up with him. 

When he’s waiting in line to buy his sandwich at the shop he goes to, he sees a package of white chocolate macadamia nut cookies in the check out line. There’s a moment where he realizes that he’s not even sure if they’re Zoe’s favorite anymore—a moment where he’s consumed with the rare and overwhelming feeling of guilt—and then he picks them up and buys them along with the sandwich anyway.  

She’s waiting right by the door when he gets back, and she looks nervous. Probably thinks he got high and crashed the car. He shoves the keys and the cookies at her with an action so abrupt he startles even himself. 

“Not even a scratch,” he says, and stalks off to his English class without looking back. 

He’s not planning to leave a note behind tonight, but maybe this will be a good enough last memory. 

***

Connor’s not really sure why he’s in the computer lab. He saw the Hansen kid duck in there after the last bell rang, and after a moment of hesitation—during which a jock the size of a small mountain body-slammed him in the middle of the hallway for holding up the flow of traffic—followed him in. So that’s why he’s in there, he supposes, but—he doesn’t really know what he’s going to do. Apologize, maybe. Maybe just put his foot in his mouth and make the whole thing worse than it already is. That’s what he’s best at. 

The best explanation he has is that Zoe is at jazz band auditions, which means he’s stuck here for a while. And it’s his last day of being alive, so maybe he just wants to set one thing right. All his other mistakes—Zoe, his parents, his future—are too big to fix before it’s too late, but he can fix this one mistake. He can make sure that just one person remembers him as someone who’s better than he really is, even if it’s just Jared Kleinman’s stupid nervous friend. 

The printer is whirring when he steps inside the lab; when he glances at it, the paper is headed with _Dear Evan Hansen_ so he snatches it up. 

Evan Hansen is hunched at one of the computer desks, logging out of his google docs account and chewing on his thumbnail. Connor watches him for a moment, struggling for something to say, and then blurts out, “So what happened to your arm?” 

Evan leaps out of his chair and whips around to face Connor. He looks alarmed, to put it mildly. “Oh! I—uh, I fell out of a t-tree. Actually.” He follows this up with a nod, like that will somehow make it more assertive. 

“You fell out of a tree?” Connor repeats, a little incredulously, and then laughs. “Well, that is just the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard.”

Evan smiles so quickly and painfully that it looks more like a spasm than a smile, and Connor mentally kicks himself. Probably mocking the kid isn’t the best way to start off an apology. 

“No one’s signed your cast,” he says quickly, and instantly realizes he’s committed another blunder when Evan’s face falls a little. 

“I—yeah, no, I—I know.”

“I’ll sign it.” Connor doesn’t know where that came from, but it feels like the right thing to say. 

“Oh—oh, uh, you don’t h-have to—“

“Got a sharpie?” He holds out his hand, and after a moment’s silence, Evan fishes a sharpie out of his pocket and hands it to him. Connor takes it and grabs Evan’s cast, prompting a quiet _ow_ from the other boy. A moment later, Evan’s cast is sporting Connor’s name in obnoxiously large letters. 

Evan looks down at his work. There’s hardly any space left on the cast. “Oh, great . . . thanks.”

Connor snorts and caps the sharpie with a click. “Yeah, well, now we can both pretend we have friends.”

Evan’s face falls a little again, and he turns away to pick up his backpack. As far as apologies go, this one is pretty fucking bad. He needs to fix this, fast. 

“Oh, this is yours?” He says, holding out the paper he’d picked up from the printer. “I found on the printer. It’s— _Dear Evan Hansen_ , that’s your name, right?”

“Oh!” Evan’s eyes widen, and his fingers start to twist in the fabric of his t-shirt. “Oh, yeah, it’s just—uh, it’s some assignment, y-you, uh, sorry, I—“

“ _Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all_ ,” Connor reads, and then snorts again. “Yeah, I bet. First day back at this shithole, and then you run into me. Definitely not an amazing day.”

“I—yeah, no, I just—sorry—” Evan lunges forward and snatches the paper out of Connor’s hands, crumpling it up in his own fist. “Sorry—I just—it’s, like, it’s like an assignment for—uh, for, for therapy? So it—it’s kind of private? Sorry, I just d-didn’t think there’d be any—anyone in h-here so I printed it out, I—sorry, you probably think I’m really weird now—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head, fists his free hand into his shirt. 

“Oh.”

Evan does the spasm-smile thing again. “But it—it wasn’t a terrible day? I mean, I have a—I have a pretend friend now, r-right? So, I mean. That’s more than—than I had this morning.”

Connor looks at him. Processes the words _it’s an assignment for therapy_. Looks at the way he’s picking at his cast and shifting where he stands, and sees something very familiar. 

He’s willing to bet Evan Hansen knows a lot about what it means to wake up restless. 

“Hey,” he says, “that’s more than I had this morning too. Guess it wasn’t a terrible day for me either.”

Evan relaxes a little and offers him half a real smile. 

“About that whole _running into me_ thing,” Connor says, because the mood has lightened a little and he may as well go for it before he fucks up and makes Evan anxious again, “I’m—I’m sorry about shoving you this morning. That was kinda fucked up. I just—Kleinman is a real asshole, and I thought you were laughing at me, and I overreacted. So. Sorry.”

Evan blinks at him. “I—oh. I, uh, that’s okay? I’m—I’m sorry about—about Jared. What he said r-really wasn’t okay. I—I would have told him—told him to, y’know, stop, but—I couldn’t think of a way to—to do it without him getting mad, and—and if he’s mad at me then I h-have no one to talk to? Sorry.”

“You’re really friends with that dick?” It’s just—Evan seems nice enough, now that Connor is talking to him, and Kleinman is such an idiot. 

Evan shakes his head vigorously. “ _Family_ friends. There—there’s a difference. He tells me all the time.” Before Connor can even formulate a response to how shitty that sounds, he adds, “And, I—Connor? I really—I really wasn’t l-laughing at you, I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I know. I know that now, anyway.” He pauses. “My sister’s probably done with jazz band by now, so I have to go. But hey—give me your phone.”

Evan scrabbles in his pocket again, and then pulls out an outdated, off brand cellphone. Connor opens up a new contact, types in his information, and then hands it back. 

“That’s for if you ever want to talk to someone who isn’t a family friend.”

“Oh,” Evan says softly. “Thanks.” It sounds more sincere than when he’d thanked him for signing the cast.

“Yeah, whatever. See you around.” He’s halfway out the door when Evan calls after him. 

“See you—see you around! Stay safe.”

Connor almost— _almost_ —turns around and asks him what he means by that, but Zoe’s probably already waiting, and he should probably hurry. It probably doesn’t mean anything. Evan probably tells everyone he meets to stay safe. 

It’s not until he’s already in the car that he realizes giving Evan his number was useless because he won’t be around for Evan to text. 

***

Larry had taken Connor’s door off of its hinges last year when he’d attempted. It’s infuriating even on the best of days—his life is on display and ready for critiquing at any time of the night or day—but when Larry and Cynthia are arguing it’s especially embittering. Where before he could slam his door in the face of the fights they have, he now has to turn his music up all the way to drown out the sound of their voices. The fact that they’re usually fighting about how to deal with him doesn’t make it any better. 

But today the arguing works in his favor. If they weren’t fighting, he’d have to worry about one or both of them passing his room and finding him before the pills could work. As it is, they’ll be at it for hours, and the medication will have plenty of time to kick in. 

Connor waits for the shouting to really get under way, and then carefully takes out the pack of gum from his drawer and counts the pills. He separates them into doses so he can take them all without triggering his gag reflex, and digs around in his backpack for a water bottle. It’d be better to take them dry so the dosage would be as concentrated as possible, but his mouth feels like sandpaper and he doesn’t think he’d be able to swallow them without water. It’s a strangely methodical process; his hands are shaking a little but his head is perfectly clear. 

Four little piles of pills. That’s all that’s standing between him and freedom. It’s intoxicating to think about—freedom from the claustrophobic, foggy feeling in his head, freedom from the white-hot rage and buzzing in his ears, freedom from the shitty days and shitty meds and shitty people who don’t give a shit about him. 

For a moment, he’s paralyzed. It seems too easy, too easy. For a moment, he’s paralyzed, and it seems like the easiest thing in the world, to just reach over and take the first dose. 

And then he thinks of how sick it’s going to make him before it sets him free. And he wonders who’s going to find him. And he wishes he’d smoked a blunt or something before doing this because it’s a hard enough thing to do without all of these worries setting in and making him wonder wonder wonder if this is the right thing. 

It’s the right thing. 

People are going to be so much better off when he’s gone. 

_He’s_ going to be so much better off when he’s gone. 

It’s the right thing. 

It’s the— 

Something moves in the corner of his eye. He abruptly becomes un-paralyzed and sweeps the four piles back into the pack of gum. Can’t get caught. He looks up. 

Zoe is leaning over the banister outside in the hallway, a sheet of paper in her hand. She doesn’t look like she’s moving anytime soon. She looks like she’s trying to listen in on what’s going on downstairs. Connor’s heart is racing. 

Racing. 

She shouldn’t be listening to that; it’s only going to stress her out, and it’s not like _she_ doesn’t have a bedroom door. She should go back into her bedroom and shut it and lock it and not come out until Connor is dead and someone else has found him. 

Until Connor is dead. Connor’s heart wrenches in his chest. He is going to die. 

“Hey,” he says. His chest hurts. “What’re you doing, listening to that?”

Zoe turns around. “Just—you know. Seeing what it’s about this time.”

“It’s about money,” Connor says. “Now go back to your room.”

She frowns at him but doesn’t move. His chests hurtshurtshurts. “Think they’re going to be done anytime soon?”

“No.”

“Think they’ll stop if I go down there?”

“No.” Connor is going to die, and she needs to get back into her room and not come out. 

“I just want to show them the schedule we got for the jazz band performances,” she says, her voice going softer than it usually does around him. She holds up the sheet of paper. “So Dad knows when to not work late.”

He pauses. The sensible thing to do would be to get angry, say something hurtful, get her to retreat back to her bedroom and not come back out. But there’s something aching in him that he can’t name. And he’s so _tired_. And he still so badly wants her last memory of him to not be horrible. It’s no excuse or amendment for everything he’s done, but he wants to give her this one thing. Give her the older brother she should have had for just a moment, so she knows he doesn’t hate her as much as he says he does. 

“Come on in,” he says. “I’ll look at the schedule.”

She scoffs, but comes to lean against his empty doorframe. “Like you’re going to come to any of them. You never do.”

He shrugs. She’s right; he’s not going to come. He’s not going to be here. 

“Here.” She shows him the paper; Connor squints to read the dates printed at the top. 

“You guys have a lot this year.”

“Yeah.” Zoe opens her mouth, and then closes it. Pauses for a second. “Damn, you can really still hear them in here.”

“Yeah, it’s the lack of a door.” It comes out a little accusing; she pulls a face and moves back towards the hallway. 

And that’s what he wants, right? He wants her to get offended and run away back to her bedroom so he can get on with it. But if she leaves, then it’ll just be him and the pills. And then he’ll have to take them. And maybe he wants one moment more, one moment more. 

“Hey,” he says. “You know this kid in my grade called Evan Hansen?”

Zoe pauses, looking surprised—maybe at the fact that he’s actually initiating a conversation—and then says, “I mean, I’ve spoken to him a couple of times. He’s sweet. _You_ seem to know him, though.”

Connor raises an eyebrow. 

“I saw you push him in the hallway today.” And her voice is back to the tight, defensive tone she usually uses around him. “Like, totally unprovoked. The guy has a broken arm, for God’s sake.”

“I thought he was laughing at me,” Connor mumbles. 

She snorts. “Yeah, whatever.”

“ _But_ ,” Connor says quickly before she can turn away, “I went to find him after school and apologized. He wasn’t laughing at me; it’s a nervous tic or something. He’s just like, a twitchy guy.”

Zoe blinks. “You apologized?”

“I—yeah.”

“Yeah, cause that really sounds like you,” she says. There’s definite bitterness in her voice now. “Just leave the poor kid alone, okay?”

A responding flare of resentment lights up in Connor’s chest, and he opens his mouth to pull out a barbed remark to hurt her with. Something about how she always expects the worst from him, how she thinks she’s so much better than him. Something—

“Okay, that was kinda unfair,” Zoe says, abruptly and awkwardly. “Whatever. It’s just—you know.” She shrugs. For a moment they’re both mute, miserable, stuck in the ugly knowledge that Connor has never given Zoe a reason to expect anything but the worst from him. Then she says, “If you really went and apologized, that was cool of you, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She pauses, and then blurts out, “Hey, are you doing okay?” Except that she says it all in one breath so it sounds like _heyareyoudoingokay_. 

“What?” Connor says. His chest is hurting again. She wasn’t supposed to ask that. She wasn’t supposed to be interested. She was supposed to go back to her room and not care, and this conversation was a bad idea from the very beginning. 

“Whatever,” she says. “It’s stupid.” But she goes on anyway: “It’s just. You know. You’ve been quiet lately. And you’ve been suspiciously nice today. Or like, for the second half of today. And I just—whatever, it’s stupid. I was like, worried or whatever.”

She looks at him. Her face is tense and defensive and somewhere under that, concerned. And there are still a million reason to take the pills tonight, and he’s probably going to take them out and put them into piles again once she’s gone, but Connor already knows that he won’t be taking them tonight. For one, it’s too risky, now that he knows she’s suspicious. But also—also he didn’t know she did things like worry about him. Also because maybe he wants to prove he can be nice without it being suspicious. Which is stupid. This whole thing is fucking stupid.

“Yeah, okay,” is what he says, instead of any of that. “Stop worrying.”

She’s not falling for it. “That’s not an answer, Connor.” For a second, she really sounds like their mother.

He sighs. “I’m never doing okay.”

“Okay,” she says without missing a beat, “but, like, not worse than usual?”

There’s a long silence. He wants to tell her the truth. But more than that, he very much does not want her to tell the truth.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “not worse than usual.”

“Okay.” She stands there for a minute longer, and then turns away. “I think they’re getting quieter down there. I’m gonna go check it out.”

He nods, even though she has her back to him, and she leaves to go sit on the stairs and eavesdrop. 

And now he’s just tired. Hollowed out. Depressed by the knowledge that that was the best interaction he’s had with Zoe in months, maybe years. Depressed that that’s the best he can do. 

But he doesn’t move to take the pills out again. He just sits there on his bed, exhausted, motionless. Thinking _I’m just trying to be nice,_ thinking _it’s an assignment for therapy_ , thinking _stay safe_ , thinking _I was like, worried or whatever_. Wondering if maybe—

His phone screen lights up on the dresser, and he leans over to pick it up. There’s one text from an unknown number. 

_Hi Connor this is Evan Hansen from the computer lab I figured you might also want my number since you gave me yours but if not then just ignore this text sorry!_

Tomorrow will work for a last day just as well as today. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyooooo that's all folks!! connor lives another day!! next update will be soon :)
> 
> -my Tumblr is [here](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com) I'm not super active on there, but I do regularly check my inbox so if you'd like to chat/ask about updates/send me love sonnets I will see them and reply.  
> -that moment in good for you when ben platt ushers in the key change and you can feel it in every nerve in your body??? smash that kudos button if you agree  
> -leave a comment, question, or concern if you want my undying gratitude.  
> -seriously if you express even an iota of interest in this fic I will be thrilled  
> -stay safe, love u


	3. Interlude (Zoe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!! before we get started, I just want to thank everyone who commented and left kudos on the last update!! you really made me feel very welcomed and encouraged by this fandom, and I'm even more excited to be sharing this fic with you guys than I was before. 
> 
> I'm going to try and update about every week. I have a lot of life changes coming up pretty soon (I'm moving out of state and going to college at the end of the month) so that might be disrupted in the future, but I'm trying to write ahead so I'll be able to update even when I don't have a lot of time on my hands. just be patient with me, and I'll do my best :)
> 
> the first interlude goes to Zoe! let's see what she has to say

The day Zoe got a lock on her door was the day she stopped trying to talk to Connor. Things hadn’t been good before then, but once that lock was installed, she stopped making an effort. Even at twelve, she knew that the lock was to keep her safe from Connor, and that scared her. Better to keep her distance. 

She was twelve, he was thirteen, and things were already irreparably shattered between them. Shattered like the guitar he’d smashed the night before when she got a solo in middle school jazz band. 

She’s sixteen now, and she’s so tired of things being ugly. On bad days, she doesn’t sleep at night—she sits with her back to the wall that she and Connor share, and listens. Waiting to see if he’ll erupt into violence again. On really bad days, she gets up and goes to the bathroom five times a night so she has an excuse to walk by his bedroom. She needs to see if he’s still breathing. 

That’s the thing: a lot of the time, she hates Connor. She hates the things he’s done to her, hates how ugly everything is because of him, hates the screaming matches and strained silences and smell of smoke he leaves in his wake. But ever since she came home from school last year and saw the ambulance outside their garage and Connor being carried out on a stretcher, she’s also been terrified.

She knows how easy it’d be to lose him. There’s still a spot of blood on the carpet in the hallway that the cleaners overlooked. 

After Connor’s failed suicide last year, she’d done her research. She’d gone to therapy for a while and talked about it with the therapist. She knows what to look for this time, because their parents are trying their best but face it, they don’t know how to deal with Connor and if there’s going to be anything standing between him and his next attempt, it’s not going to be them. It’s going to be her. 

Anyway. Tonight is one of the nights she can’t sleep. She’s worried because Connor’s been acting off today, and as sad as it is to be concerned that he’s being nice, she knows enough to be suspicious that he might be trying to say goodbye. And it’s probably nothing, and she should probably go to bed, and—and—and if something happens to him without her noticing, it’ll be her fault. 

It’s already 2 AM anyway. She may as well stay awake; she’d only have four hours to sleep before getting up for school, and it’s not really worth it. 

When they were kids, she and Connor tried to learn morse code so that when their parents were asleep, they could knock on their shared wall to talk past their bedtime. They never really mastered it, though, so it was mainly just them drumming back and forth and giggling without any real meaning. Usually Larry would hear them and come out to tuck them back in bed with a lecture about why it’s important to get a good night’s sleep. 

The last time they ever tried to do it was when Zoe was probably nine or ten. Their parents were fighting downstairs—fighting about Connor, because he’d pushed Zoe down the stairs, and they’d assumed it was because he was angry at her. He hadn’t been angry; they’d been playing tag and got a little too enthusiastic. But no one had listened. And so while their parents raged downstairs, she and Connor sat with their backs to their shared wall, knocking back and forth. But it hadn’t lasted long, because Larry had come upstairs and shouted at Connor to leave her alone. 

She’d sat and knocked quietly against the wall every few hours for the next few days, but Connor never knocked back after that. And eventually she gave up. And every time Connor had shoved her after that, he’d meant it. 

Zoe pulls herself out of that train of thought, because reminiscing about when she and Connor had been friends only makes her sad this late at night. She tries to save that for the daytime, when it makes her pissed off. At what, she’s not sure, but. Still. Pissed off. Better than being sad. 

There’s only silence from Connor’s room, which is really no guarantee of anything, so she gets up. 

The hallway is dark, but she doesn’t want to use her phone flashlight and risk waking anyone up, so she just waits outside her door until her eyes adjust, and then sets off to the bathroom. Blinks at her reflection in the harsh light. Waits a moment, then flushes the toilet so she has an excuse to be out of bed. Then she sets off down the hallway again to check on Connor. 

It’s hard to see, because Connor has blackout curtains in his room that hardly allow in any light from outside, but after a moment, she thinks she sees him moving. A moment more, and—yes, she’s sure his chest is rising and falling. 

“Sweetie?” 

Zoe nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of her mother’s hushed voice, and turns to see Cynthia standing behind her. 

“I—hi?”

“What are you doing up so late?” 

“I just had to go to the bathroom.” A sudden fear that something has happened in the minute she’s been turned away seizes her, and Zoe glances back at Connor once more, just to be sure. 

When she turns back away, her mother looks heart-broken. 

“Oh, honey,” Cynthia whispers finally. “You know it’s not your job to check up on him, right?”

Zoe wants to say that that’s not entirely true, that her parents had missed the signs last time, but she just nods.

“He’s going to be fine,” Cynthia says, and that’s not entirely true either, but Zoe knows it helps her mother sleep at night, so she just says, “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, go back to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Zoe nods again, but she doesn’t move, and Cynthia doesn’t either. They just stand there for a few more minutes, watching the silhouette of Connor’s chest rise and fall and rise again. 

When Connor slouches downstairs for breakfast the next morning, Zoe swallows down the rush of relief that wells up in her chest and shoves a packed lunch into his hands. 

“Hurry up; if you aren’t ready soon I’m leaving without you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Connor says, flipping her off when Larry turns his back, and they have made it through another night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully you enjoyed that little insight into Zoe's pov!! now click that next chapter button and see how Connor feels after having made it through the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible trigger warning: connor smokes a lot of cigarettes and also some weed in this chapter. I have never done either of those things and therefore have no clue how long it takes to smoke a cigarette/joint, so if the timeline in this chapter is totally fucked, that's why. call it artistic license and let it go.

Whatever connection he and Zoe had last night is gone the this morning; she shoves a lunch at Connor when he comes downstairs and snaps at him to get ready. He flips her off, and she pulls a face at him. It’s far closer to what the past few years have been like than their conversation last night. 

Last night, when she had been there to unknowingly stop him from swallowing those pills. 

Connor lets out a long breath and gets into her car without making the fight worse. He doesn’t know how to feel about last night—he’s going to try again, he knows that, but somehow the fact that she’d stopped him from doing so makes him less angry at her. It’s just—he hadn’t known she worries about him. That has to mean something.

“Your taste in music is fucking terrible,” he says when she cranks up the radio once they pull out of the driveway. 

“No one asked you,” she snaps, and turns it up another three notches. The noise, combined with the spaciness from the meds Cynthia had made sure he’d taken at breakfast, makes it hard to think about anything at all, and so he’s spared from picking over everything that had happened yesterday until they’ve pulled into the high school parking lot. And once they’re there he’s distracted from the matter of Zoe and the pills by the sight of someone wearing a blue polo shirt. It’s not Evan Hansen, but—still. It reminds him. 

_Hi Connor this is Evan Hansen from the computer lab I figured you might also want my number since you gave me yours but if not then just ignore this text sorry!_

It’d been a hilarious disaster of a text message, but instead of mocking it like he could have—should have—Connor had just replied **hi evan. thanks for your number** becausehe was still kind of freaked out from the whole Zoe encounter, and honestly, he’d done enough to make the poor kid feel bad today. And he hadn’t really expected a response. But then he’d gotten another message saying _See you at school tomorrow!_

Which. Connor hadn’t been planning on going to school, even if he had decided to delay taking the pills another day. And so he hadn’t responded, but he’s sitting here in the car with Zoe now, confused and annoyed and very much not-dead. 

So, like, whatever. Now he has to go through this shit all over again. And things seem back to normal with Zoe, and he stupidly forgot to smoke this morning, and there’s a dull roar in his head that won’t go away. 

Today is already worse than yesterday. 

He gets through first hour—which is math class; delightful—and second hour and third hour okay. No one really talks to him, which is usually a good thing, but today it just means that there’s nothing to distract him from the endless loop in his head that just keeps thinking _I should be dead I should be dead I should be dead._ But other than that—he’s not too irritable today. He’s as functional as can be expected. But of course it doesn’t last, because it never does. 

When he’s at his locker to get his lunch, the mountainous jock that had shoved him in the hallway yesterday passes with a group of his goons, and Connor just _knows_ that something’s going to happen, someone’s going to say something, and if he’d _just killed himself last night like he was supposed to_ —

“Hey, Murphy, where are you keeping the ammo?”

And Connor just. Snaps. 

Slams his locker. Clenches his shaking hands. 

“Leave me the _fuck_ alone.” He can’t see straight. His vision is going white. 

One of the goons shoulders the fucking jock guy. “Dude, he is _so_ going to kill you first.”

And they all laugh, and keep walking, and Connor is left there with his fists going white-knuckled at his sides. He’s paralyzed. Frozen in place. Feeling helpless and somehow humiliated, even though he doesn’t _really_ care what they say about him. It’s just. No one fucking cares. No one fucking ever says anything to defend him, and he wishes that one time, just one time, someone would. But instead they all laugh, and keep walking. 

His vision is still blurry, so he grabs his lunch and his lighter and the pack of cigarettes from the bottom of his backpack, and goes to the bathroom as soon as the hallways have cleared. 

Once he’s there, he sits down on the floor even though it’s gross, and lights up. The trick to smoking here is not doing it in the stalls; that’s where the smoke detectors are. But they’re not anywhere good enough to go off unless you’re literally smoking right underneath them, and so Connor can get away with it as long as he does it by the sinks. And as long as no one tattles, but hardly anyone is rule-abiding enough to tattle. If it was someone who really hates him, maybe. Whatever. Hardly anyone is in the bathroom during lunch, anyway. 

He gets through two cigarettes before the door to the bathroom opens. 

“Oh,” Evan Hansen says upon seeing him. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Connor asks. He stubs his cigarette out on the tile and looks in the paper bag Zoe had given him in the morning. Now that he thinks about, it was kind of nice of her to make sure he had a lunch. Or maybe she just didn’t want to let him drive her car again. That’s probably it. 

“Um. Being here?”

Connor laughs a little at that, because he, too, is sorry he’s here. “Whatever, Hansen. You can take a piss; I won’t look.”

“Uh—actually, I—?” Evan holds up a brown paper bag, and Connor realizes he’s also here to eat lunch. “Sorry, I can go somewhere else? I—I’ll g-go somewhere else, sorry.”

“You can eat here, I don’t care.”

“I—” Evan looks pained. 

“Oh my god, just fucking eat.”

Evan sits down with his back against the opposite wall and fidgets with his lunch bag. He looks very wary of Connor. 

“How—how has your—your, um, second day been?”

“Oh my god, we don’t need to talk.”

“I—sorry.” Evan goes red and becomes very interested in shredding a strip of his bag. “Sorry.”

“You apologize a lot.”

“I—ha, yeah, I’ve b-been told. Sor—” He snaps his mouth shut on the apology and shrugs. 

They sit in silence for a while. Connor is debating whether or now Evan will have an aneurysm if he lights up again. Evan isn’t eating anything. 

“My second day has been pretty fucking awful so far,” Connor finally offers. “I’m assuming yours has been too, since you’re sitting on the bathroom floor with me.”

Evan goes even redder and mumbles something very rapidly under his breath. 

“What?”

“I—sorry, I—I just said that, um, that I eat l-lunch here most of the time? So really—really I’m just having an average day?”

“Oh.” If Connor wasn’t still swallowing his anger from earlier, he’d be a little saddened by that. “That kinda fucking sucks.”

Evan laughs, kind of awkwardly. “Yeah, sorry, I know.”

“Kleinman doesn’t eat with you?”

“Ah, I—no, he has other—um, he has other friends.”

“I’m shocked,” Connor says drily. “It’s a wonder even you put up with him.” Connor himself hasn’t eaten a meal in the cafeteria in years; too many eyes on him, too many opportunities for confrontation. Last year when he had his car, he’d pretend to be a senior and sneak out during lunch to skip the second half of the day. He’s not sure what he did before that. 

Evan just does his really quick, pained smile and shakes his head. He’s unwrapped half a peanut butter sandwich, but he’s still not eating. Connor doesn’t feel like eating either, to be honest. The anger has faded away, along with whatever was left of his appetite, and now he’s just. Tired. 

He really did write his name really fucking big on Evan’s cast. He wonders if anyone’s asked him about it.

“Not hungry?”

“You’re not eating either,” Connor points out. “And I already said we don’t need to fucking talk?” He knows that’s kind of ironic, because he was the one to restart the conversation when it’d last died out, but he’s really not interested in explaining why he’s not eating to Evan Hansen. 

“Sorry—yeah, sorry, you did, I hate when people do that? Do what—what you told them not to do? Sorry, I know—I know you’re only talking to me because—um, because you think it’s funny. Or. Sorry.”

“What?”

“I—” But Evan has already lost confidence in whatever he’d been saying, and he just mutters out _sorry_ again, and starts shredding his bag again. 

“Oh my god,” Connor says. “Stop apologizing. I’m not talking to you because I think it’s funny.”

“Sorry—you’re right, I shouldn’t have, um, assumed—”

“Just—be quiet, okay? I’m not making fun of you, I’m fucking tired and I don’t want to talk. That’s all.”

Evan nods, very rapidly and multiple times, and then starts nibbling his sandwich. He looks like he’s taking great care with the way he’s eating. Connor’s not sure why. 

They don’t talk again until the bell that ends lunch rings and Evan leaps to his feet and throws away his mostly uneaten lunch. 

“Connor,” he says, and then looks deeply uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know if they’re on first-name terms or some shit. 

“What.”

“When you said we could pretend to be friends . . .”

It’s the most Connor has ever heard him say without stuttering, but then a group of obnoxiously loud sophomores barge into the bathroom and Evan just ducks his head and leaves without finishing. 

Connor kind of wishes he’d finished. 

***

Zoe has a second round of jazz band auditions today. She tells him that after today, she won’t have to stay after school until Friday, but he’s still never felt the loss of his car so keenly as now. It’d be the perfect window of time—he’d drive home, go upstairs, take the pills, and be dead by the time the rest of his family came home. He briefly considers walking home to do it, but the time that would take would really make the whole thing pointless. And he’s tired, and he hasn’t eaten yet today, and it’s hot out. So. 

He doesn’t go to the computer lab again, specifically because he kind of feels like he’s walking around in a vacuum or something, and he really doesn’t think an encounter with Evan would go well while he’s like this. Assuming that Evan is even in there, which he might not be. Instead he opens the janitor’s door near the band room, and sits in the doorway and smokes his way through another few cigarettes. He really doesn’t like the smell of them, but—they make his hands shake a little less. It gives him something to do. They’re shitty reasons, but reasons nonetheless. 

The sun is too warm against the sleeves of his hoodie, but Connor doesn’t dare take it off. There’s nothing really to see anymore; he hasn’t so much as even scratched at his skin since last year when he’d— _whatever_. He can’t think about that right now. But he doesn’t want anyone in this school seeing even the old scars. He’d never hear the end of it. 

“Connor.”

Even though she’d said his name, it takes him a moment to realize the girl’s voice coming from behind him is talking to him. Connor twists around so the door is still propped open, and hastily stubs the cigarette out against the concrete step he’s sitting on. Alana Beck is standing behind him, her arms crossed and her lips pursed. 

“You’re _not_ supposed to be smoking on school property,” she says, which is absolutely nothing less than he’d expected from her. 

“Okay,” Connor says. 

“I _should_ report you.”

“Okay,” he repeats. He really doesn’t care if she does, at this point. His parents are always fucking angry at him no matter what he does, so she may as well give them a legitimate reason. And Connor won’t have to deal with it tomorrow; he’ll be dead by then. 

“But I’m not going to.” She looks down at him curiously, like he’s something in a museum. They may as well be on two different planets, her and him. “It’s after school hours, and you’re not really hurting anyone. And I’m _very_ busy.”

Connor just looks at her. After a moment she sighs. 

“Your sister is in jazz band, right? Do you know where they practice?”

He points down the hallway to the band room. He’s surprised she doesn’t know where it is; she seems to know everything. 

“Oh, okay, thanks. I need the director to sign off on preforming at the assembly. Which I’m organizing, because I’m on student council. Hey, you’re in my Bio class, right? Have you done the homework?”

Connor looks at her incredulously. “No? School just let out?”

“Oh. Well, _I_ did it during lunch. Let me know what you thought about it tomorrow in class; I thought number two was a little tricky so you probably will too.”

“Okay,” Connor says tiredly. “Go get your thing signed, or whatever.”

She wilts a little, but quickly recovers and just nods briskly before setting off down the hallway again. Her shoes go _click click click_ against the floor, and the noise makes Connor’s head feel like it’s about to explode. He really shouldn’t be allowed to interact with the general populace. For his sake and for theirs. He doesn’t even know when the last time he’d wanted to smoke this badly was. He’d kill for a joint.

When Alana is safely around the corner, he lights up again, and smokes his way through half a pack while he waits for Zoe. She pointedly sniffs the air when he gets into the car, but even she must not have the energy for a fight, because she doesn’t start up about it. He’s glad for that. He can’t risk being too nice today because she’d been so suspicious yesterday, but he still doesn’t want his last interaction with her to be horrible. 

He doesn’t know exactly when he’d started caring about how she felt about all of this. Maybe sometime over the summer, when all he’d done was think about suicide, and all their parents had done was fight. He doesn’t know what she did all summer, but he remembers her being gone a lot, and thinking that things were better when she was there to act as a buffer between him and Larry and Cynthia. 

Cynthia’s car—speak of the devil—is in the driveway when they pull up, and Connor can already feel his heart sinking. Larry isn’t home yet, and that means she’ll be busy bustling around checking on the two of them three thousand times a minute, and clattering around downstairs in the kitchen trying to make dinner. If she bothers him he’s going to say something awful and hurt her like he always hurts her, and he just—doesn’t know why she couldn’t have just stayed out long enough for him to kill himself. 

“Mom’s home,” Zoe says, so glumly that he kind of laughs because that’s exactly how he feels about it too. But then she adds, “She’s probably going to take you school shopping. Since you wouldn’t go before school started. She was talking about it last night.”

Connor is instantly horrified. He hadn’t wanted to go school shopping because he hadn’t seen the point if he was just going to be dead before he got to attend much school. He still doesn’t see the point. And if he spends more than a minute in his mother’s fiercely cheerful, well-meaningly oblivious company, he’ll go even crazier than he already is. 

Zoe makes an aggressively unsympathetic face at him and parks the car. He swallows the wave of resentment that wells up in response—even he knows that it’s not rational to get angry at her for something that small—and slams the car door extra hard as he gets out. 

“Real mature,” she calls after him, and he flips her off. “It’s not _my_ fault.”

“Right, because nothing is,” he mutters under his breath. He can feel his mood getting uglier by the second. Maybe he should just run upstairs, grab the pills, lock himself in the bathroom. It wouldn’t work—he knows Cynthia has a spare key to the bathroom. They’d just put him in rehab again. He doesn’t want to end up in rehab again. Locking him up where no one else can see him isn’t going to do anything except maybe make his parents feel better about themselves. 

“Honey!” Cynthia says when he walks in, and his shoulders sag. “I was thinking we could go school shopping this afternoon? Just you and me—we never went before school started, and I thought—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Connor says, so savagely that she flinches, and then he feels terrible. “I mean—yeah. We can do that.”

“Okay,” she says, softly this time, like she doesn’t want to provoke him again. He wants to _tell_ her that it’s not her fault, that he’s just _like_ this, that talking quietly isn’t going to stop him from getting angry—but she never _listens_ , none of them—

“Okay,” he echoes. “I’m going upstairs. Call me when you’re ready.”

She just nods, and he goes upstairs, and flops down face first on his bed without taking off his backpack. He hears Zoe and Cynthia talking downstairs for a moment, their voices half-hushed, which means they’re talking about him. Then he hears Zoe’s quick footsteps skipping steps as she goes up the stairs, slowing as she comes down the hallway. Pausing for a moment outside his doorway. Then going to her room next door and shutting the door. 

He’s not sure how long he lays there, unmoving, before Cynthia calls him, but it’s not long enough. 

“Con, sweetie, are you coming?”

“Yeah. Coming.” He drags himself off the bed, shedding his backpack as he does so. He pauses to look at Zoe’s closed door as he emerges into the hallway. Working. That’s what she’d been doing all summer. She’d worked at a movie theater or something, and he’d gotten high and stunk up the house, and she’d gotten drug tested on her first day. 

“Con?”

“Coming,” he says again, and goes downstairs. 

***

They traipse around the mall for hours. With every store they visit, Connor’s mood worsens. His mother tries to get him to buy notebooks with superheroes on them. He tells her he doesn’t like superheroes anymore. His mother tries to get him to buy cardigans instead of hoodies. He tells her he’s never liked cardigans. His mother tries to get him to get a haircut, and he walks out of the mall and sits on a bench outside and smokes. 

He needs a joint. He has one left; he can picture exactly where it is in his room. 

“Connor?” 

His mother is looming over him when he looks up. He exhales a great deal of smoke up at her, and her face tightens.

“I bought the rest of the school supplies myself,” she says. “Please put that out.”

He stubs the cigarette out on the bench and throws the butt on the ground. “I’m not getting a haircut.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” She sounds tired. 

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

“Can we go now?” Somewhere over by the entrance to the mall, a group of teenage girls laugh, and he has to quash the thought that they’re laughing at him being chided by his mom for storming out of the mall like a little kid throwing a fit. He knows they’re not. He has the thought anyway. 

“Sure, Con. We can go.”

They walk back to the car together; he offers to carry some of the shopping bags, and she brightens a little after that. By the time they’re back on the road, she’s talking at him about the dinner party she’s going to this weekend. He makes noncommittal noises in all the right places, and that seems to be enough to satisfy her. 

He’s so tired. He should have just done it yesterday, and then everything would be over with, and he wouldn’t be in such an ugly mood, and things would just be quiet. 

When they get home, Larry smells the smoke on him and they get into a minor fight. Larry makes Connor take off his hoodie and searches the pockets while Connor stands there with his arms pressed to his sides so no one will see the scars. He knows they’ve seen them—it would have been hard not to after he’d attempted last year, what with the stitches and everything—but if he still feels naked when his arms are bare. But before he has to worry about that, Larry finds the empty pack of cigarettes in his hoodie and goes _aha_ , and then he really starts yelling. 

They don’t fight about the cigarettes too much. It’s not weed, so. 

Cynthia finally gets Larry to calm down, and calls Zoe downstairs to eat dinner. It’s fucking ridiculous, the way they all congregate around the table to pretend that they’re normal and everything is fine. Zoe hides behind her hair and mumbles half-hearted replies to Cynthia’s attempts to keep a conversation going. Connor picks at his mashed potatoes and avoids eye contact. Last night—his decision not to take the pills, his worry that Zoe would be upset if he died—seems miles away. He wonders if anyone would even notice if he was gone. 

It would be so easy to disappear. 

After dinner, Cynthia starts vacuuming upstairs, and the noise grates on Connor’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He unearths the joint from where he’d hid it in the back of his closet, slips it into the pocket of a new hoodie, and palms his lighter off of his dresser. 

“I’m going for a walk,” he says as he passes Cynthia in the hall, and hurries downstairs before she can ask any questions. Larry is in the study, so he gets out without a problem. 

When he steps out, the sky is a sullen purple; after a few minutes of walking, the sleeves of his hoodie are slightly damp from the oppressively humid air. It’s probably going to rain later—there, there’s something positive. He’s always liked when it thunderstorms. 

He waits until he’s in the wooded part of the neighborhood park to light up. When he had his car he used to drive all the way out to Ellison State Park and walk out to the old part that no one goes to anymore, the bit of the woods that had the oldest and tallest trees. He’d sit there and smoke and no one would bother him until he went home and got yelled at for staying out so long, but by that time he’d be too high to care. But he’d crashed his car in the middle of the summer, so he gets high here instead. Whatever. Not like it matters. 

Connor gets through maybe half the joint before it hits him, and after that life seems a lot easier. He definitely wants kill himself a little less; the world moves slower and everything in his head is quieter and things just seem more manageable. He doesn’t have to think so much. 

It’s quiet in the park; the only person that passes by is a kid on a skateboard who smells the weed wafting out from the trees and says, “oh, dude, fucking _sweet_ ” before moving on. Maybe he should just spend the night out here. He knows that’s the pot talking, but—still. It’s probably not the worst idea he’s ever had. Whatever. It's quiet here, and he likes it. It’s pretty fucking pathetic that the happiest he’s been in a while is this: sitting under a tree in a damp park smoking a joint all by himself, but he’s never claimed not to be pathetic. 

The truth is, he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to take the pills tonight either. Larry’s all riled up from earlier, and Cynthia’s been watching him all day, and Zoe is still probably suspicious from last night. He’s probably going to have to stick it out for a while yet, and he just—he’s just so fucking sick of everything being the way it is. Maybe he can put in an effort to make things better until he gets another chance to off himself. Tell Cynthia he needs more therapy so she thinks he wants to get better. Cooperate with Larry so they fight less. Try not to be so fucking awful to Zoe so—just because he doesn’t want to be so fucking awful to Zoe anymore. 

Maybe that would be nice. It wouldn’t last because he always fucks things up, but maybe he can keep it going just until he commits, and—maybe it would be nice. 

Maybe it’s the weed talking. 

***

When he gets home, Larry smells the weed on him, and it’s a whole thing. 

“—even after what I told you today about the cigarettes—”

Connor wishes he was higher than he is. 

“—you’re throwing away your life, do you even _want_ to graduate—”

And he feels himself doing that thing where it’s like he’s in his body feeling his anger mount and mount and mount but he’s also outside his body watching with a distinct feeling of indifference. 

“—what do you want, Connor, what do you want me to do that I haven’t already done—”

“Maybe I want you to _help_ me,” Connor bursts out, feeling his fingernails bite into his palm, and white hot rage is creeping back into his vision, and he’s appalled at how quickly he got angry but he doesn’t _care_. “Maybe I want you to realize this isn’t a fucking problem that’s going away, I’m fucking _sick_ —”

“ _You will not raise your voice at me_.”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!” He shouts. His vision is blurry and he’s just so angry at how _stupid_ he'd been to think that he could ever ever try to fix things with Larry when his dad is so fucking blind and—and—and— “You wouldn’t listen when I said the meds weren’t working, you wouldn’t let me stay in therapy long enough to get things under control, you think this is some kind of phase or some shit, but I'm not fucking getting better, I—”

“Connor,” Cynthia says placatingly, but breaks off when he rounds on her, trembling. 

“It’s like you guys want to see me fail, what the fuck—you want to lock me up in rehab again, right? You want me out of your lives so you don’t have to deal with me—”

“We want you to stop throwing behind everything we’ve given you,” Larry thunders. He’s red in the face, and a vein is popping out in his forehead. “You’re being a child, Connor, you have a good life, an easy life, and you’re wasting it—”

“Larry,” Cynthia says, and he makes an aborted gesture with one hand, like he’s trying to shush her but he’s too angry to even focus on doing it right. “Larry.”

“If I’m wasting it, it’s because you won’t help me stop wasting it,” Connor snarls, ignoring her. “You won’t fucking listen, you think I’m some useless fucking waste of space or something—you wish I was like _Zoe_ , because you _love_ Zoe, you think she’s _perfect_ —” He breaks off, bites down on what he’d been about to say. He hadn’t meant to bring her into this. 

“Don’t make it about that, you know it’s not about anything like that—this is about you going off and smoking weed like some kind of tramp—”

“It’s about you being a _dick_ —”

“ _You are being disrespectful_ —”

“ _Larry_ ,” Cynthia says loudly, and they both fall silent. “Larry. Maybe we can talk to Doctor Lee, figure something out. If he’s asking for new medication—”

Larry flings his hands in the air. “Well, my God, _forgive me_ if I don’t believe that he needs new medication when he’s coming home from the park high as a kite—he probably just wants more pills to get high off of—”

“It doesn’t work like that and you fucking know it,” Connor says. He’s shaking, and he thinks his nails have pierced the skin of his palm. 

“Larry, I just think that maybe we should give him a break, give him his space—”

And Connor doesn’t need _space_ , he needs _help_ , he needs them to _listen_ , and they’re not _fucking listening._  

“Cynthia, you let him get away with murder—”

“Have you forgotten what happened last year?” She interrupts, and it’s like she’s pulled a gun on him. Larry instantly falls silent and looks at the ground with an expression of frozen, pained uncertainty. They all stand there for a moment, no one speaking, everyone consumed with the blurry memories of the ambulance and the blood and the hospital. Connor hears the floorboards squeak upstairs; Zoe must be standing in the hallway to listen.

“Connor,” Larry says finally, not looking at him, “go upstairs to your room and let your mother and I talk. We can discuss your punishment later.”

Connor turns and slowly walks upstairs, making sure to make as much noise as possible so Zoe has time to go back into her room and pretend like she wasn’t eavesdropping. The anger is already seeping out of him; he no longer has the sensation of watching himself from above, and his fists are uncurling. It’s probably the pot. 

He sits down on his bed—his backpack is still where he’d let it drop earlier—and stares at the dresser. Maybe it’d be best to take the pills now. But no—Larry will come upstairs to dole out punishment and give him a lecture in a bit, and Connor doesn’t want to waste his opportunity like that. 

What he’d been thinking in the park was stupid. The whole thing with his family is too fucked up and complicated to even pretend to fix. They never fucking listen to him; it’s like they don’t even hear what he’s saying. They don’t want to hear anything he has to say. 

_Go upstairs to your room and let your mother and I talk_. They don’t even want him there when they’re talking about him. _Oh my god, we don’t need to talk._ They just want him to shut up and stop being _him_ —but no, that isn’t from tonight. _Oh my god, we don’t need to talk._

For some reason, the image of Evan Hansen fidgeting with his lunch bag pops into his head, and— _oh my god, we don’t need to talk_ —and Connor had said that, said that to him, and Evan had thought Connor was only talking to him because he thought it was funny. 

And Connor is definitely still high, because that has nothing to do with anything. 

Except. Except. Except Evan had left the bathroom without finishing his question, and Evan had thought Connor was making fun of him, and Connor hadn’t fucking _listened_ to what he was saying, and Larry and Cynthia hadn’t been listening to Connor, and maybe it’s the weed, but that all seems mixed up in his head, and—

And everything else is too fucked up to fix, but maybe Connor can fix this one thing. 

He digs his phone out of his pocket, turns it on—no notifications, because no one wants to fucking talk to him—and opens the conversation with Evan from yesterday. He spends a minute just staring at the screen, because the light it’s emitting looks kind of weird when he’s high. Then he types out a text, deletes it, types it again, and sends it. 

**when i said we could pretend to be friends what i really meant is that we actually can be friends. if you want to or whatever. i wasn’t making fun of you.**

He wants to write more—wants to tell Evan that he’s lonely and unheard and restless, and that he thinks Evan knows what that feels like—but he knows if he writes anything else he’ll regret it when he’s sober, so he just presses send and then lets his phone drop to the floor. 

Every single thing that has happened today has been stupid. He turns off his light and gets into bed fully clothed. When Larry comes upstairs, he doesn’t come into Connor’s room, but maybe that’s just because Zoe calls him from her bedroom and he goes in to talk with her instead. 

Connor listens to their muted, indistinguishable murmurs through the wall his bedroom and Zoe’s bedroom share, and thinks about when they tried to learn morse code so they could communicate through it. They haven’t done that in a while. They haven’t done a lot of things in a while. And then the high finally fades, and then he doesn’t think about anything at all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks! I know the other characters aren't in this a ton, but I really want to establish Connor's mental state and get some exposition done before I introduce a ton of character interaction. everyone else will start cropping up more in the next chapter, I promise!
> 
> -my Tumblr, through which you may communicate with me, is [here](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com/). consider coming to say hi.  
> -if you so desire, you may spread the word about this fic by reblogging [this post](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is).  
> -that moment in the last chorus of waving through a window when the other cast members are lined up and evan is running between them trying to get their attention and they keep turning away from him in unison and it's all perfectly synced with the music????? smash that kudos button if you agree  
> -leaving a comment is easier than brewing a magical potion to increase the speed at which I write and then sending it to me so I can drink it and write faster, but it has almost exactly the same effect. fancy that.   
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	5. Interlude (Evan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all hear about the great comet closing? this is why we can't have nice things
> 
> thank you to everyone who left such lovely responses on the last update! you guys make cry and blush and smile all at once, and I love you. 
> 
> today's interlude goes to Evan. I know he had the prologue, but don't worry, the other characters will get their turn too. he's in a bit of a better place than the last time we heard from him; let's go see what he has to say!

Evan doesn’t see Connor’s text until the morning, because he’d had a panic attack about college applications in the evening and went to bed early. He’d been looking at the costs of his first choice college, and it’d just seemed like so much, and his mom had said that they’d make it work no matter what, but—Evan feels like such a burden sometimes. 

And then his cast had started itching, and for some reason that had just pushed him over the edge, and he’d clocked out for the night.

So Evan doesn’t see Connor’s text until he’s sitting in first hour with Jared—it’s a coding class that Jared had forced him to sign up for even though he doesn’t know anything about coding—and he realizes he didn’t check his phone when he’d woken up. Not that people really send him messages or anything, but he likes to check every morning because he’s always scared he’ll miss some important notification or something if he doesn’t. Like what if the school calls in the morning to announce a snow day, and Evan misses the call, and then he walks to school and he tries to open the doors but they’re locked because it’s a snow day but the janitors are in there and they laugh at him for being stupid enough to miss the call, and—yeah, he checks his phone a lot. It’s September, so it’s not likely that he’d get a call about a snow day, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry about it. 

When he sees Connor’s text, though, his chest does this weird thing where it kind of closes up and feels really full at the exact same time. It’s just—it’s kind of nice? It sounds nice when Evan reads it in his head. He tries to picture Connor saying it, but whenever he tries to think it in Connor’s voice, it sounds kind of sarcastic, so he doesn’t do that. 

**when i said we could pretend to be friends what i really meant is that we actually can be friends. if you want to or whatever. i wasn’t making fun of you.**

Yesterday Evan had been so convinced that Connor was just talking to him so he could laugh at him. He hadn’t responded to that text message, and then he’d seemed so fed up with Evan in the bathroom, and Evan had assumed that the apology and everything had just been a big prank or something. 

“What are you smiling at?” Jared demands, craning his neck to try and see Evan’s phone screen. 

“N-nothing, sorry,” Evan says hastily, turning his phone off and shoving it in his pocket. “Sorry, just—my mom was texting me?”

“Oh my god, don’t tell people that,” Jared says, rolling his eyes. “It makes you sound more pathetic than you are.”

“What’s wrong with—”

“Wanna see the new Redbone meme?”

Evan has no idea what Redbone is, but he agrees. With Jared it’s usually just better to agree. 

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t told Jared about Connor. Probably because if he does, Jared will make a ton of jokes about Connor either wanting to kill Evan, or wanting to sleep with Evan. Those are really the only two kinds of jokes Jared makes, as a general rule. And if he does that, Evan will start worrying that Connor actually does want to do either of those things, and then they’ll never get a chance to be friends because Evan will always be worried that Connor is going to kill him, and then maybe Connor will get so annoyed that he actually _will_ kill Evan, and then his mom is going to be sad, and—

Evan rubs his hands up and down the thighs of his jeans very rapidly, and tries to shove all of those thoughts out of his head. 

“Stop fidgeting and just _listen_?” Jared says, offering Evan one of his earbuds. “You look like an idiot, just sit still.”

“Right,” Evan says, letting out a long breath and taking the earbud. “S-sorry.”

Jared plays him a song that’s been edited to sound like Kermit the frog is singing, and Evan doesn’t see what’s so funny about it at all. 

The rest of the first week of school is excruciatingly uneventful. Jared sends him memes in class and grudgingly helps him with his coding homework. His mom texts him during her lunch break to make sure he’s doing okay. Zoe Murphy walks by his locker every day after third hour, and Evan always kind of looks forward to that. 

He’s had a crush on Zoe for ages; he’d written about it in that letter Connor had picked up the first day of school. He wonders if Connor would still want to be friends if he’d read a little further before Evan had grabbed it. Evan tries not to worry about that too much, because he _hadn’t_ read any further, and Evan _had_ grabbed it away, and he still does kind of worry that that had come off a little rude? And he hopes Connor doesn’t, like, resent that he’d grabbed it, it’s just that it was private, and he really didn’t want Connor to see it, because he has a crush on Connor’s sister and he really doesn’t think he’d take that very kindly. And then Evan’s right back where he’d started before he’d begun worrying. 

Anyways, he’s had a crush on Zoe for ages. Not that, like, he expects anything to happen there, because Zoe is really sweet and always seems happy, and Evan keeps messing up when he talks to her, and now he’s kind of friends with her brother, whom she doesn’t seem to like very much. So he’s decided to put the crush thing in a box in the back of his head, because he has enough to worry about right now. Maybe once he’s paying less attention to the fact that he has a crush on her, he’ll stop getting so nervous around her and they can actually have a real conversation. 

It’s the most rational thought he’s had in a while. Doctor Sherman would be proud. 

So the first week of school really isn’t any different than every other week of school he’s lived through in any big way, but it feels different. It’s little things. He and Connor make eye contact in the hallway and exchange nods of acknowledgment. Alana Beck turns around in Bio and asks him to be her lab partner on Friday. He drops his books in the hallway, and Jared rolls his eyes and stoops to help him pick them up. Maybe it’s just in contrast to his remarkably terrible summer, but Evan feels a little more— _seen_. 

He and Connor don’t talk that much, but Evan likes their tentative friendship anyway. He’s never had someone to nod at in the hallway before. On Thursday, Connor texts him in the middle of class, and Evan has to stop himself from laughing out loud: **ur asshole friend kleinman is in my french class.**

Then, a moment later: **he won't shut up. is there a button i can press to turn him off?**

It’s little things. Evan feels a little less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I'm really dating this fic by including specific meme references, but I firmly believe that it is my duty to give Jared specific memes to talk about and so I stand by that decision. now click that next chapter button and see how Connor is doing!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: I never took ap bio in high school. all lab procedures in this chapter are made up purely for the sake of plot. also, little refresher about texting formatting: texts written by connor are always bolded, texts written by whoever he's talking with are always in italics, and I will always clarify who that other person is. 
> 
> this chapter is the longest yet. 7k words. why do I write like I'm running out of time,

The weekend drags by in a blur of small fights with Larry and the dull dread of returning to school on Monday. The first week of school had been mind-numbing; Connor had been out of weed, out of energy, out of opportunities to take his pills. He doesn’t expect this one to be any better. 

Sure enough, on Monday, the week kicks off to a great start when the two girls that sit behind him in math class have shit to say about him, because people _always_ have shit to say about him. 

“Why does he wear his _hair_ like that?”

“Do you think he ever _washes_ it?”

“Shh, he’s going to _hear_ you.”

“He won’t care if he does, he’s probably _high_.”

Connor is, in fact, not high, although now he wishes he was. He also entertains some pretty violent thoughts about the girls behind him, but—he tries to repress them, if only because it’s a little early in the morning to be plotting murder. 

“Do you think he’s ever had a _girl_ friend? Ew, can you imagine _kissing_ him?”

“I mean—I’ve heard he’s _gay_.”

Connor is, in fact, gay, a fact known to few but joked about by many. He’d told his parents in sophomore year; they were almost relieved. He thinks they thought he’d get better after he came out, like all his problems came from repressing his sexuality or something. But he didn’t get any better, and they don't really talk about it anymore. Sometimes he thinks Larry kind of assumes he’ll grow out of it, but it’s not really a thing they fight about because Larry hates drugs and mental illness more than he hates Connor being gay. 

Anyway, he makes it through first hour despite that little encounter. Then in Bio the teacher announces that they need to get into their lab groups because they’re doing a lab today, and he doesn’t want to see anyone working alone because there’s a lot of work in this lab, and he doesn’t want to have to extend it into tomorrow. Which is fucking great, because Connor isn’t in a lab group; no one wants to work with the school psycho. So now he either has to refuse to find a group and make a big scene, or he has to go around and beg someone to let him into their group, and he really doesn’t want to do either of those things. Just his _fucking_ luck—

“Hey, Connor.” It’s the same self-important voice that had scolded him about the cigarettes last week, and so it’s with a measure of great weariness that he turns to face Alana Beck. 

“What.”

“Evan and I—” she points over her shoulder; Connor follows her finger with his gaze to meet the eyes of Evan Hansen, who waves at him awkwardly from across the room—and oh yeah, he’s in this class “—are in a group already, but he saw that you didn’t have one, and he thought maybe we could be in a group of three. And I thought that’s a _very_ good idea because this lab is a _lot_ of work, and we could accomplish _so_ much more with another person.”

For a moment, Connor just stares at her. He doesn’t remember the last time someone had actually asked him to be in a group with them. He also doesn’t remember the last time someone had thought he’d actually be an asset to the group he’s in. 

“Oh,” he says, stupidly. “Oh, okay.”

“You’ll join us?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

She beams at him and turns to give Evan a thumbs up. “That’s wonderful.”

They go back across the room together to where Evan has already set up the lab equipment. 

“Hi, Connor!” Evan says. He seems uncharacteristically cheerful today. “Here—um, I got a pair of lab googles for you? So you—so, uh, you wouldn't need to go back over to, um, to get a pair.” He offers the googles to Connor, who takes them and tucks his hair behind his ears to put them on. 

“Thanks.”

Evan looks super dorky in his own goggles, and he seems very conscious of it. Alana, on the other hand, snaps hers onto her face with such purpose that Connor straightens his posture a little just from watching her do it. 

“Thanks for setting up, Evan,” she says briskly. “Let’s get started, shall we? Connor, could you read the first instruction for us, please?”

Connor looks at her for a second, and then reads, “Set up the lab equipment.”

She makes an impatient gesture. “The next one.”

“You said the _first_ one—”

“Oh, don’t be difficult.”

He rolls his eyes and reads out the next instruction for the other two. They seem to know exactly what to do, because they instantly get down to work. Maybe Connor should have come to class on time on Friday when they went over the lab instructions in class. Mainly he just passes them the equipment when they ask for it and reads out the instructions when they move on to another step, and they don’t seem to resent that. After a bit Evan starts to sort of narrate along with what they’re doing, which at first is a little annoying, but then Connor realizes that Evan saw him come in late on Friday and is maybe trying to help him out. Which is—kind of nice of him.

Alana, for her part, tries to commandeer most of the work until she puts their slide under the microscope and can’t see anything. 

“I think this microscope is broken,” she says with complete authority. “Connor, will you go get us another one? It won’t focus.”

“Oh,” Evan says, “sorry, I—sorry, I think you might have forgotten—um, forgotten t-to add the reactor? So that’s probably why the sample isn’t, uh, showing up? Sorry, just—sorry. I think that’s it.”

She looks at him for a moment, then snatches the instructions out of Connor’s hands and reads through the last step. After a second, her shoulders sag. “You’re right,” she says. “I completely overlooked that.”

“It’s okay? I—um, I only remembered because we had to run a similar test at the—um, at Ellison State Park. I, uh, I interned there over the summer, and I h-had to do it sometimes? We—we were testing the, um, the trees for disease. So. That’s the only reason I remembered? Sorry. It’s—it’s an easy mistake to m-make.”

“But you didn’t make it,” Alana says. She hesitates for a moment, and then adds, “Sorry. I usually don’t make stupid mistakes. But you were very smart to notice it, Evan.”

She passes him the slide to add the reactor, and Evan ducks his head and flushes. Connor feels a sudden, weird surge of sympathy for her. It’s got to be hard to always be the smartest person in every room. There’s a weird kind of pressure that goes with that, he supposes. But he doesn’t say anything, because he feels like Alana would rather just move past it. 

“So—Ellison State Park?” He says instead. “That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, it—I mean, it’s like whatever, I mean it’s kind of lame? Sorry. I just like—science, like biology and botany and stuff? Like trees and stuff? Sorry, you—you, uh probably don’t care, I just—”

“Hansen, I literally fucking asked you about it.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Is that why you fell out of the tree? You were working at the park?”

Evan goes even redder than he’d already been and mumbles something unintelligible into the microscope. 

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask if I can sign your cast,” Alana says. “I was going to the first day of school—but I mean, it was the first day of school, and what with student council and trying to make a good impression with my new teachers and everything I sort of forgot. But I’d love to now, if you’d let me.”

Evan looks up from the microscope and blinks at her for a second. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. Um—yes please? That would be, uh, great?”

She beams at him. “Do you have a sharpie? Connor, could you take a look in the microscope and draw what you see on the lab paper? Just—yeah, right there. Just while I sign his cast. Thanks so much.”

Evan hands her a sharpie and she bends over his cast to sign the top, right above Connor’s name. Her signature is a good deal smaller but also a good deal neater—it’s in cursive and has a ton of flourishes and everything. Connor’s not surprised; she seems like the kind of person who practices their signature for when they’re famous in later life. He watches her write for a second and then looks back into the microscope. The cell structure actually looks kind of cool. Like abstract art or something—really geometric. 

“There you go,” Alana says, straightening up. “I was afraid it would be sloppy, but I think I did a good job, don’t you? Oh—Connor, that looks really good.”

Connor looks at his drawing of the cell structure and shrugs. He used to draw a lot—he took all the art classes in middle school—but then, like. Everything happened. He doesn’t really draw anymore. “Thanks?”

“Yeah, that’s—that’s really good?” Evan says, peering over his shoulder. “Could, um—could you d-do all of the lab drawings? Only if you want? Alana asked me t-to do them, but—I’m really no good at, um, at drawing. Sorry—I don’t want you to feel—“

“Yeah, no, I’ll do it,” Connor says. “You guys are doing everything else, so.”

When the period is over and they’ve submitted their lab, Alana asks them which class they have next.

“Math,” Evan says with a measure of regret. Connor claps his shoulder in solidarity, and Evan startles so suddenly that both Connor and Alana leap back from him. “Sorry—just. Wasn’t expecting it.”

“I have AP English,” Connor says, and Alana brightens.

“Oh, me too! We can walk together, then. I didn’t realize you were in my class!”

“Yeah, well, I sit in the back and sleep, so I’m not surprised.”

“We could sit together if you’d like,” she offers. “Then I’d know which parts you fell asleep during, and take notes for you.”

The bell rings, and Evan stutters out a farewell and leaves for math, leaving the two of them to walk to English together. 

Connor is honestly flabbergasted by Alana’s proposition. If it had come from anyone else he would suspect they were making fun of him, but—Alana just seems so sincere, like she genuinely wants to take notes for Connor while he sleeps, and he just—doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“Aren’t there a ton of student council people in that class?” he says. “I’d’ve thought that you’d want to sit with them.”

She makes a dismissive gesture. “Honestly, they’re kind of distracting. I’m really very interested in what we’re learning, so having them talk over the teacher all the time is pretty annoying.” But she’s holding herself kind of defensively, so Connor doesn’t really think that’s it. 

When she comes to sit with him in the back of class, he expects the student council crowd to call her back over to them, or at least ask why she’s sitting with a freak like Connor. But they don’t even seem to notice that she’s gone, and he thinks he understands her a little better after that. 

***

_Sweetie, your dad and I have been talking. We’re going to schedule an appointment with Dr. Lee on Friday and see about getting you some new medication. Dr. Lee says you will probably benefit from longer-term treatment, and Larry agrees it’s time for a change._

And Connor really, really did not plan on waking up in the middle of English just to be greeted with his mother giving him that kind of information. 

**sorry what?????**

**why wasn’t i a part of that discussion????? it’s my fucking brain that we’re fucking messing with?????**

_Con, you said you wanted new medication._

**yeah but not on fucking Larry’s terms ok?????**

**you can’t just suddenly DECIDE that i deserve new meds because it suits you or whatever**

_Sweetie, please be reasonable. You wanted this. We want you to feel better._

**ok that’s fuckin ironic**

**no one makes me feel worse than you two**

**what changed since last week??? why is fucking larry suddenly on board with this???**

_Connor, we can talk about this at home. Until then, plan on going to see Dr. Lee on Friday. I think we can all acknowledge that you haven’t been improving as much as hoped._

***** as much as YOU hoped. You guys don’t fucking get it.**

_Then help us get it. I don’t understand you, Connor._

**that’s pretty fucking clear.**

“Connor,” Alana whispers, leaning over to frown at him. “Are you okay? You look a little—um. Angry?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says loudly, and the teacher scowls at them from the front of the class. 

Alana makes an apologetic face at her and then turns back to Connor to whisper “Okay, please be respectful?”

“Fuck off,” he hisses, and then feels kind of bad. But not bad enough to apologize. 

She presses her lips together and then turns to face the teacher again. He puts his head back down on the desk and squeezes his eyes shut. 

He’s been on medication on and off for a few years now. Not all of it was prescribed; some of it was the herbal shit that Cynthia was into for a while. That was obviously useless, but then again, so was most of it. He’d have a manic episode or an outburst that was particularly bad; they’d take him to a few weeks of therapy and put him on some pills for a bit, and then they’d wean him off. They always thought it was a temporary thing, that he just needed something to get him through that phase. And then he’d have another outburst, and the whole fucking cycle would happen all over again. 

He’s been on a different, more regular medication ever since he’d tried to kill himself last year. He’s been going to therapy more regularly, too. Clearly, it’s not enough, because he’s been saving up that medication all summer to overdose with. It’s like they finally realized that this problem is not going away but they’re still not willing to fully commit to treating it because they’re still hoping it’ll disappear if they just ignore it. 

And now it seems they’ve finally woken up to the fact that Connor needs more help than that. But it still leaves a bitter taste in Connor’s mouth—he’s only getting treatment because Larry said so, because they decided behind his back and behind closed doors that he needs it. They’re still not listening; they still don’t care. He’s still so fucking alone in this, barely keeping his head above the water while they look down at him and dispassionately decide whether or not to throw him a lifeline. 

When the bell rings he ducks out of the classroom without waiting for Alana. His hands are starting to shake and he’s not even really sure _why_ , he just—he just—he’s so angry and his lungs feel like they’re constricting and his throat is closing up and—he grabs onto the strap of his bag, and the hallways are full of eyes that are watching Connor Murphy, resident psycho, have a fucking breakdown in the middle of the school day.  

He gets to his locker and opens it, and then just stands there staring at the books inside without taking anything out until the hallways clear and his throat has unclenched a little. His hands have gone white-knuckled on the strap of his bag, but if he lets go they’ll start shaking again and he’ll hate that even more. 

The day hadn’t been going terribly, for the first time in a long time. Of course it couldn’t have lasted. 

When the bell rings, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and closes his locker. It’s lunchtime; thank God he won’t have to go to class. There’s a bathroom that’s usually empty by the stairs in the math hallway—he can go sit there until he calms down. He’s still fucking shaking, and his head is stuffy, spacey, full of white noise. 

When he gets to the bathroom, he goes to the sinks, splashes water on his face—it’s lukewarm and doesn’t do much—and then looks up to be immediately greeted by the reflection of Evan Hansen standing behind him. Connor jumps and turns around.  
“Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair, tries to calm himself down by sheer force of will. “Hansen.”

“Hi?” Evan says. “Hey, are you okay?” 

“Fuck. Yes. Fine.” He gestures to the lunch bag in Evan’s hand. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, huh?”

“Yeah, I—sorry, this—this bathroom is usually empty during lunch? Are—um, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fuck off,” Connor says, but it really doesn’t have any heat to it. He backs up against the wall, slides down it so he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, and holds out a hand in front of his face to see if it’s still shaking; it is. Evan shifts nervously above him, and then squats down so they’re eye-to-eye. “Oh my god, are you still here?”

“Yeah, s-sorry. I just—you kind of look like—like, uh, you’re freaking out and freaking out is kind of a speciality of mine so I was just—sorry, you probably don’t want to be compared to me? But I just wanted to k-know if you were—like, okay or whatever—like I have a lot of experience with freaking out so—I just—sorry? Like if you want to t-talk or something?”

Connor just looks at him. He looks deeply uncomfortable, but also somehow determined, like he really does want to know if Connor’s okay.

“Okay,” Connor says, and doesn’t know why. “Stop me if you stop caring, okay?”

Evan goes bright red and opens his mouth but Connor cuts him off. 

“My mom told she wants to put me on new medication today,” he says. It’s a weird thing to tell someone he’s known for, like, a week, but—if anyone can understand what Connor is feeling like right now, he thinks it’d be Evan. Evan, who can’t get through a full sentence without stuttering, who jumps every time someone touches him, who writes letters for his therapist. “Like, we’re gonna talk about with my therapist on Friday. And it just—I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Evan says, very carefully. “Are your current meds working?”

“No.”

“So—but this isn’t a good thing?”

“I don’t fucking know, Hansen. My parents just decided they wanted to put me on new shit without telling me or anything. They don’t care about—whatever. And—what if it doesn’t work, or—I mean, nothing’s worked so far, and I think that’s because my parents aren’t taking this seriously, but also—what if it’s just because nothing is ever going to work, and this is just how it is for me.”

The moment those words come out of his mouth, Connor is both deeply ashamed and relieved. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? He’s scared that if he gets put on new meds, he’ll get his hopes up again. And he doesn’t think he can take being let down again. He’s so ready to just fucking give up. He’s been drowning for so long that he doesn’t know if he even wants the lifeline anymore. 

“Okay,” Evan says. “Um—I don’t know if you know this—I mean, you can probably tell, and like, you saw that letter I wrote for my therapist so you probably guessed, but—whatever, sorry. I have really bad anxiety? And I—I mean, I don’t know what you’re struggling with or whatever, but—it took me a really long time to get medication that worked for me. And I’m still not—I mean, you’ve met me.” He laughs kind of awkwardly. “So—I get what you’re talking about. I was really scared nothing would work for me either. And even after I found something that did, I was still really struggling. So like, it’s not easy but it’s worth it? Sorry, that’s really cliche, but—I’ve been doing a lot better than I was. And it wasn’t just the pills, it was getting a good therapist, and my—my mom’s really helped me. Like, making sure that people understand. Or even, like one person? It’s a lot of things. So—even if these new pills don’t work, don’t give up, is what I’m saying, I guess.” His voice has been getting progressively steadier the longer he’s been talking, something Connor finds weirdly calming. 

“The thing is my parents don’t understand,” he says, because he’s not sure what else to say. 

“Oh—um, I’m sorry.” Evan rocks back on his heels so he’s sitting on the floor with Connor rather than squatting. “I can—I can be your person that understands, if you want? Sorry if that’s like really weird, I—”

Connor smiles half-heartedly. “Nah, it was nice. You’re nice, Hansen.”

Evan flushes and shrugs awkwardly. “I’m sorry my advice is so bad. I still, um, I still have a lot of bad days, so.”

“Today: good day or bad day?”

“Good day, I guess.”

“Wanna give me some of those good vibes?”

Evan laughs a little. “How?”

Connor holds out one fist and after a moment, Evan bumps his own against it. “The fist bump of magic good vibes. I feel better already.”

Evan laughs again, harder this time, and Connor wonders why more people don’t talk to him. It’s a nice feeling, making Evan Hansen laugh. 

They sit together in silence for a bit, and then Connor says, “Does it really ever get better?”

“It did for me,” Evan says. “A little, anyway. I—I’m still working on getting better.”

“Just—the summer was so shitty? And last week was so shitty, and—I don’t know.”

“My summer was—um. Not that great either. Last week wasn’t so bad, though?”

“Here’s to this week not being so bad.”  
Evan nods, and they sit across from each other on the bathroom floor for the rest of their lunch period. Connor’s hands aren’t shaking anymore by the time he gets up to go to French. 

***

The fight with Larry and Cynthia when he gets home is ugly, as expected. Larry says that he must be faking this for attention if he doesn’t want to accept help from them now. Connor says that they must be shitty parents if they make decisions like this over his head without asking him how he feels about it. Larry says that everything isn’t about him, and he needs to think about other people sometimes. Which—okay, fair, but in this particular situation, the problem is very much so about him. Cynthia tries to mediate, ends up screaming at them both, and then cries in the corner. Larry points this out and asks him how it feels to have made his mother cry. 

And those are just _some_ of the greatest hits. They rage at each other for a good few hours, and then Larry sends Connor to his room and storms off into his study. A while after that Cynthia drives off to do god knows what. Brunch, or yoga, or whatever she does in all her spare time. 

And Connor just feels—empty. A few years ago he would have killed for them to offer something like this. But it’s too little, too late. They’re acting like they’re doing him this big favor when it’s something he’s needed for years. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up only to have them dashed yet again when his parents inevitably make another decision that’s going to fuck over his mental state even more. 

It’s too late for him. There’s only one way out of this. 

Maybe he should just take the risk. Take the pills. See what happens. Even if they find him in time, it still might convince him that he’s not faking this. 

He’s so tired. He doesn't think he can manage all that fighting to get better that Evan had talked about. 

Whatever. It’s so fucking stupid, and he’s so fucking tired. Evan got help earlier than he did, that’s why he can afford to be say that shit. Evan’s probably never felt like this—probably never lain on his bed and obsessively picked over the thought of death, imagining it, picturing it, swaying back and forth between wanting it. 

For the first time, Connor wonders if he actually wants to die. Or if he just doesn’t want to be _this_ , Connor, right now. And for a second he can almost hear Evan’s voice smoothing out the longer he spoke to Connor about getting better, the stutters and hesitation giving away to something tentatively hopeful.

He doesn’t know what to make of that thought, so he rolls off his bed and goes into his closet to see if he has any weed that he forgot about. Which he knows he doesn’t, because when you’re planning to die you don’t generally bother to stock up on weed. He hadn’t thought he’d be alive long enough to run out of weed. Pathetic. 

He’s starting to get that restless, itchy feeling back. His skin doesn’t fit right. But there’s nothing to do about it now, so he goes back to his bed and checks his phone: four new messages, which is basically an all time high. 

One is from an unknown number, which says _Hi Connor, this is Alana Beck. I asked Evan for your number. Since we’re a group in science, it will be easier to communicate about homework, projects, etc., this way. I hope you don’t mind!_

The other three are from Evan: one from around the same time Alana had texted him saying _I gave Alana your number! Sorry if you didn’t want me to! I just thought it would be a good idea for Bio and stuff!_

The next one is from an hour or so ago: just a single fist emoji. He’d followed it up with: _The fist bump of magic good vibes! I figured you might need some for talking with your parents about your medication today. Not that I’m assuming anything about your family life or anything, it’s just always good to have good vibes, right? Sorry if that’s weird._

To Alana he sends: **I don’t mind, do what you like**

To Evan: a fist emoji and **thanks**. 

Evan almost immediately responds with _Anytime! I hope everything went well!_

**yeah not really**

_Are you going to go through with the meds?_

**yeah looks like it**

_That’s good, though, right?_

**yeah idk**

_Oh_

_I’m sorry_

**for what hansen**

_Just that things aren’t going well._

_Hey, not to be weird but just….give the pills a chance to work, okay?_

**yeah whatever**

_Sorry!!! Sorry_

Connor doesn’t respond to that because he’s exhausted his meager resources for social interaction. Evan probably is freaking out thinking that Connor hates him now, but he doesn’t really give a shit. Even seeing the sentence _give the pills a chance to work_ makes him feel slightly sick because it means that if he does, he’ll have to recommit to the whole being alive thing again, right after he’d decided to commit to being dead. 

And then someone raps on his doorframe, and he looks up to see Zoe standing in the doorway. Trust her to show up the minute that he decides he’s done with talking to people for the day. 

“What.”

“I heard Mom and Dad decided to put you on new meds?” Her voice is tentative, stilted, awkward. Connor is already tired of looking at her. 

“Yeah.”

“Thats…good.”

“Yeah, what the fuck ever.”

“You aren’t happy?”

Fury flares up inside Connor’s stomach, because isn’t that just his entire fucking life? People looking at Connor and asking _you aren’t happy?_ and Connor wanting to scream back that _no_ , no, he’s not and he doesn’t know _why_. “No, Zoe, _you’re_ the one that’s happy, because the only time you can even pretend like you give a shit about me is when they have me so drugged up I can’t fucking see straight. You can fuck off and tell Larry and Cynthia that you got in your ‘caring about Connor’ quota for the day now. Stop pretending like you’re on my fucking side.”

Zoe’s expression fills with deep, undisguised hurt for a moment, and then it hardens, freezes. “I don’t know why anyone bothers trying to help you. You push all of us away, and then ask for help, and then attack us when we give it to you. That’s pretty—” her voice falters, and she swipes at her eyes so angrily that even Connor is taken aback by the vehemence of the gesture “—that’s pretty fucked up, Connor. Pretty goddamn fucked up.”

“You’re only now getting the news that I’m fucked up?” he snaps back, and she flinches at the force puts into his words. There’s a terrible, singular moment of silence where it seems they’re both waiting to see if he’ll leap to his feet and lunge at her, and then she storms away. A second later, her door slams and locks. 

Connor rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Why does she try? Why does he try? Why do any of them fucking try anymore when it has been made so abundantly clear, over and over, that everyone would just be better off without Connor?

_Give the pills a chance._

_It’s not easy but it’s worth it._

Everyone wants Connor to do something, to get better, to calm down, to be quiet, and all Connor wants to do is lie here and stare at the ceiling and think about taking the pills, imagine the darkness closing in, obsess over letting go.

***

He’s not sure how much time passes after that, but some point later in the evening, Cynthia comes and sits by his bed. 

“Con,” she says, and she sounds like she’s been crying. She cries an awful lot these days. Mainly because of him. 

He doesn’t reply. 

“Connor, I just want you to know that your father and I love you very much, and we only want what’s best for you. That’s why we decided this. We didn’t mean to exclude you from this decision. You said that’s what you wanted, and so we thought you’d be happy.”

And maybe she’s right, maybe he’s being irrational, but then maybe it should say something that he doesn’t even know when he’s being irrational anymore. He’s so stuck in his own head all the time. 

“And Connor, I heard about what you said to your sister, and I know you’re upset, but we don’t say things like that to each other in this house.”

He almost laughs at that, because they have all said _so much worse_ than what he said to Zoe today. He doesn’t know why she likes to pretend that they’re a normal family when they’re so obviously not. 

“Sweetie, Zoe was the one that talked to your dad about getting you new medication. She didn’t want you to know, but I think you should. She said that your father should start listening to you more, and that she was worried about you. She _is_ on your side, Con. We _all_ are. We all want you to get through this, okay?”

He still doesn’t say anything until right when she’s about to get up to leave, and then he can’t hold it in any longer. 

“Mom.”

She hesitates, and then says, “Yes?”

“What if I don’t get through this?” He doesn’t look at her, can’t look at her. He’s looking at the ceiling. “Mom—what if this is it for me?”

It’s not really what he wants to say—what he wants to say is: I know I asked for new pills but now that I have them I’m scared they won’t work; I’m scared of getting my hopes up; I’m scared that you and Larry decided to get them without me; I’m scared that I can’t control anything about my life anymore, not even my own brain—but it’s close enough. 

“Oh, Con,” she says. “Don’t say that. You’re so strong, honey. You’ll get through this.”

And he doesn’t find that very comforting, but he just kind of nods and lets her leave without saying anything else. He knows she doesn’t understand. Maybe it should at least mean something that she’s trying.

When she’s gone, he just lays there. Thinking. Thinking about Zoe asking Larry to listen to him, about Zoe telling the two of them to get him new medication, about Zoe caring enough to try and help him. 

_Okay_ , he thinks, _okay_. Maybe he can give the new meds a fucking chance, because Zoe deserves it. Because she wanted to give him a second chance and he almost threw it away. Because Evan fucking Hansen had told him so earnestly that he will get better with work and time and pills and someone that understands. Because maybe he doesn’t want to be _this_ , maybe he doesn’t want to be _Connor_ , right here, right now, but maybe he doesn’t have to die right now either.

He’ll keep his stash of pills—he’s not giving up on that idea entirely. But first he’ll give the new ones a fucking chance. 

***

***fist emoji***

_*fist emoji*_

_Sorry, am I giving you the good vibes or are you giving me the good vibes this time?_

**either one idk hansen**

_Okay._

_I might need them today, sorry._  

**u can have them**

_Thanks. I have a mini-presentation with Jared in coding :((_

**hey good luck**

_Thanks_

**also**

**did i tell u i’m giving the pills a chance?**

_No!! But that’s really great!!! That makes me happy!!!_

**yea whatever.**

**pay attention to ur class hansen.**

_Sorry, you’re the one that texted me?_

**p a y a t t e n t i o n t o u r c l a s s h a n s e n**

_How long did it take you to type that?_

**too long :(**

***

After English on Tuesday, Alana grabs Connor’s elbow with more conviction than he’s done anything in his life, and says, “Do you know where Evan’s class is?”

“The math class he just got out of? It’s in the 300s, like 313 or something. Why?”

“I was thinking that since we’re all acquaintances now, we could eat lunch together and brainstorm ideas for future Bio projects. It’d be good to keep ahead, you know?”

Connor opens his mouth to tell her that if she thinks he’s going to spend his lunch period talking about Bio with her, she must be insane, and then remembers how the people he’d thought were her friends hadn’t even noticed when she wasn’t sitting with them. And realizes that she probably doesn’t want to sit with him and Evan to talk about Bio. She just wants to sit with them. Maybe because she doesn’t have other people to sit with. 

“Yeah, let’s go find him,” is what he finds himself saying without really realizing it. He hates the cafeteria. Hates sitting surrounded by the whole school so they can all whisper behind his back what a freak he is. He really shouldn’t be agreeing to this. 

They catch Evan heading to the bathroom with his lunch bag and a kind of pathetic determination. 

“Evan, Connor and I are going to sit in the cafeteria, would you like to join us?”

Evan looks at her like she’s an alien species. “I—t-to eat lunch?”

She smiles, kind of sympathetically. “Yeah, to eat lunch. It’ll be nice, don’t you think?”

“Um. Yes?”

So the three of them set off to the cafeteria together, perhaps the most unlikely trio to ever grace the halls of their high school. 

Alana finds them a table to sit at, and Connor makes sure to position himself so his back is as much of the cafeteria as possible. If they’re talking about him he doesn’t want to know. Evan, on the other hand, sits with his back to the wall, facing out towards the rest of the cafeteria, like he thinks someone is trying to sneak up on him. 

Predictably, they get about three minutes of peace and quiet to unwrap their sandwiches before someone comes along and ruins it. 

More accurately, someone comes and sits down with them without asking and—

“‘Sup, losers.”

Yeah, Jared Kleinman happens. 

“Oh—I—hi, Jared,” Evan says, looking bewildered. “I thought—sorry, um, I thought you had other people to sit with?”

“They’re not here today,” Kleinman says, shrugging. “Lucky you were here, right?” He looks around the table. “Hi, I’m Jared. The insanely cool Jared Kleinman.”

Alana’s eyebrows had moved higher and higher up her forehead the further Kleinman had gotten into the phrase the _insanely cool Jared Kleinman_ , but she smiles at him politely. “I’m Alana,” she says. “You probably know me from student council, or maybe—”

“Yup, nope, I don’t know you,” Kleinman says. He points at Connor with a cheese stick. “I know _you_ , though.”

Connor glares at him. “Yeah, who said you could sit here?”

“Me, the only person who matters. And probably Evan, who doesn’t matter quite as much.”

Evan offers Connor a weak, sort of apologetic smile. Connor rolls his eyes and returns to his sandwich. 

“So—President Beck, the Acorn, and Courtney Love. Why are you guys sitting together?”

“Alana, um, asked us to? We’re—we’re in Bio together, the—the three of us, we’re a group and she thought—um . . .” Evan trails off when he realizes Jared isn’t paying attention anymore, and laughs awkwardly, looking down at the table. Jared, oblivious, launches into a story about something that had happened in his history class last hour. It involves the names of a lot of people Connor doesn’t know, so he’s not that interested, but Alana is following along and laughing quite a bit so—Jared’s probably going to be sitting with them, then. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Connor sees Zoe get out of the lunch line and scan the cafeteria. She looks at the four of them for a second, and then turns away to go sit with two of the people from jazz band that Connor’s seen before; he knows for a fact that she doesn’t like them very much. She must not know many people in this lunch period. 

Alana and Evan burst into laughter as Jared concludes his story, and Connor’s attention shifts back to the table. Jared has a shit-eating grin on his face, and he waggles his eyebrows at Connor when they make eye contact. Connor flips him off. 

Maybe he would hate Jared’s company a little less if the memory of their confrontation on the first day of school wasn’t so fresh. He could forgive the guy for being generally obnoxious, but just—not for that particular instance. Whatever. It’s just that Evan and Alana, insanely enough, seem to genuinely like Connor, and he doesn’t want Jared to mess with that. Because Jared thinks he’s a freak. A psycho. Thinks he’ll shoot up the school. 

But Jared doesn’t really say much to or about Connor, just talks about the stupidest shit at top speed and volume, and then fucks off a few minutes before lunch ends. 

“He’s interesting,” Alana says, tentatively. 

“He—um, he’s really not that bad?” Evan says, “He, uh, comes off a little—sorry, he’s a bit much? But he’s nice, really.”

“Is he,” Connor says. Evan doesn’t pick up the sarcasm and nods furiously. 

“Yeah, I—he’s nice, you’d, um—you’d like him? I think? If you knew h-him? Or maybe not, sorry, I—”

“Oh my god, Hansen, stop apologizing.”

“Sorry,” Evan says, and then grimaces. 

“Well, either way, it was nice sitting with the two of you, even if we didn’t get any work for Bio done,” Alana says hastily. “We should do this more often.”

Evan goes red and fidgets with the strap of his backpack. “Yeah—yeah, yeah, we should.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Connor says, but warmly enough that Alana smiles at him.

“I’ll see you two tomorrow, then,” she says, and walks off just as the bell for the end of lunch rings. 

Connor and Evan look at each other. 

“How was your presentation?”

Evan flushes even deeper. “Oh—it was okay, Jared, um, he did most of the talking because—he knows I don’t, uh, like public speaking.”

“Oh,” Connor says. “Well. I’m glad it went well?”

“Yeah, me t-too.”

They stand there for a second, and then Connor says, “Well, I’ll see you around or whatever.”

Evan opens his mouth, closes it, and then nods. “Yeah—I—yeah, bye.”

Later, when Connor is sitting in the back of French class listening to Jared make jokes about the French word for shower a few rows over, he decides it’s not bad, having people to talk to. He could get used to this. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! The French word for shower is "douche," and I thought Jared would appreciate that. stay tuned for more childish humor. 
> 
> -my Tumblr can be found [here](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com)  
> -consider giving [this post a reblog](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is) to let others know about this fic  
> -that moment in If I Could Tell Her where Evan goes "and he said, it looked really pretty--" and then the music stops for a second and he's like ABORT ABORT and really awkwardly goes "--er, it looked pretty coOL"??? smash that kudos button if you agree  
> -the rumors are true: people who leave comments on this pic are actual angels. leave a comment to earn your complimentary wings and halo  
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	7. Interlude (Alana)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks! y'all hear about ben leaving in November?? I'm literally moving to NYC in a week and a half for school, so you better believe I'm prepared to drain my bank account and sell my soul to see him in the show before he's gone. keep all your appendages crossed for me bc I heard tickets skyrocketed after he announced he was leaving. 
> 
> on a slightly more serious note (although ben leaving us is p serious), I wanted to say a quick lil something about the response to the last chapter. It was, as it always is, completely phenomenal, and I continue to stand in awe of the fact that people are actually reading this. But I got a few comments that all said roughly the same thing, which was: I really can relate to how Connor is feeling in this chapter. I know that feeling of "is this it for me?". I've been there. I'm still there. 
> 
> I responded to all of those comments individually as I always do, but I also wanted to post the gist of my response to those people up here in the authors notes in case there are some readers that feel this way but didn't leave a comment about it. So, here it is: I don't know what's going on in your lives, and I don't know what any of you have been through. But when you come here, to read this particular work of fiction, to look through my rambling silly author's notes, to be a part of this community, you are safe, you are valued, you are loved. You are not alone when you come here to read this story. And if you see yourself in Connor now, when he is suffering and alone, I hope you will be able to see yourself in his journey to recovery. This is a story about healing and forgiveness and love, and I hope with all my heart that if you are in Connor's shoes right now, you will see that if he can heal, so can you. This is not it for him, and this is not it for you. There is light out there. You will find it. 
> 
> OKAY sorry now enough talking: this interlude goes to Alana. Let's see what she has to say.

On Wednesday, Alana wakes up not dreading school for the first time since freshman year. It’s not immediately apparent why, but she doesn’t ruin the feeling by questioning it too much—no point in spoiling a good day by overanalyzing it. Instead, she swings her feet out of bed precisely three minutes before her alarm goes off, and goes downstairs to eat breakfast.

Her mom is already sitting at the kitchen table reading a New York Times article on her phone; Alana pours herself coffee and sits down across from her. 

“Morning, sweetie,” her mom says absently. “Anything exciting happening at school today?”

“I’m supposed to get my Calc quiz back,” Alana says, stirring milk into her coffee and watching it swirl into a hazy pale cloud. “And Mrs. Newsome said she’d give me my letter of recommendation today.” 

“That’s wonderful. You’re very ahead with your college applications, then?”

“Well, they have to be perfect,” Alana says, and then regrets it when her mother looks up and frowns. 

“Alana, sweetie—”

“I didn’t mean _perfect_ —”

“—please don’t let these applications consume you; I know you’re stressed but you have so much on your plate. Give yourself some time if you have to, okay? Your dad and I will be proud of you no matter what. You’ll be happy and successful no matter where you go to college.”“I _know_ that,” Alana mumbles into her coffee. They’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Her school-related anxiety and tendency to overload had consumed her in the middle of sophomore year; she’d ended up having to take two weeks off of school. Ever since then, her parents have been monitoring her stress levels very closely. She’s been seeing a therapist, too; Dr. Lee said that Alana probably wouldn’t benefit from medication, but the therapy sessions themselves have been very helpful with learning new stress management techniques. 

And everyone keeps telling her that she doesn’t need to be perfect, that she doesn’t need to be good at everything, but the thing is—at school, where there are no therapists or parents to reassure her, it seems like she’s only worth something when she’s perfect. When she gets the perfect score on the test, when she writes the best essay in class, when she plans the prettiest homecoming decorations for student counsel. That’s the only time people see her, when she can pretend she has friends. 

But that reminds her—that’s why she’s not dreading school today. She’s felt seen lately. She’s even had people to sit with in class and lunch these past few days. They’re not _friends_ , quite, but they’re _acquaintances_. And for once, that word seems more like a prerequisite for having friends than an excuse for not having them. 

There’s Connor, who’s kind of strange and quiet, who sleeps through class and doesn’t do his homework, who often comes off as rude and stand-offish. He’s actually exactly the kind of burnout that Alana despises, but he listens when she goes off on a rant about inconsistencies in the timeline of _Julius Caesar_ , and he sits sullenly with her in the cafeteria even though it makes him visibly uncomfortable, and that’s somehow kind of redeeming. Then there’s Evan, who’s probably more anxious than she is, who knows a lot about Biology but doesn’t make fun of her when he knows more than she does, who apologizes too much and seems be painfully aware of how annoying that is. He’s sweet and a little weird, and Alana can tell that he needs friends just as badly as she does. And there’s that Jared kid, who came to sit with them yesterday, who’s a little mean and irreverent and annoying, but who made her laugh harder than she’s laughed in a long time. 

But maybe most excitingly of all, there’s Zoe Murphy, Connor’s younger sister, who sits next to Alana in Creative Writing, who doodles stars on the cuffs of her jeans in class, who chews on the end of her hair when she’s bored, who has a really pretty smile that comes easily to her face. For their first assignment, they’d had to write a poem using an extended metaphor and then pair up with someone to peer edit it. Alana had read Zoe’s, and she doesn’t remember the whole thing, but it had been quite good. The metaphor had been about Zoe’s bedroom door—how it’s always locked, how on one side of the door she has to be one version of herself, the version that’s always smiling and happy and successful, and on the other side she can allow herself to be upset and angry and resentful. In a technical sense, it had been a little clumsy—the rhythm of the poem was weak—but more importantly, Alana had _understood_ it. 

She thinks Zoe Murphy knows quite a lot about what it means to feel like you have to be perfect all of the time. 

And so Alana has become determined to bring this group of misfits together by sheer force of will if she has to. She’s nervous—anxious—even terrified, but it’s a task that she is, for once, truly looking forward to. More than she’d looked forward to crafting the perfect resume, or taking up more extracurriculars than anyone else at school. She’s looking forward to having friends. 

“I’ve made a few new acquaintances at school lately,” is what she says to her mother, and then drains her coffee cup. “They’re _very_ interesting people; it’s a nice change from all my work. I’m going to go get dressed. Is Dad up yet?”

“He was getting in the shower when I came downstairs; he should be down any minute. I’m glad you’re making new friends, honey. Make sure you eat something before you go; your lunch for school is in the fridge.”

“Okay,” she says. Maybe she’ll wear that blue blazer today; Zoe had said her favorite color is blue. Indigo, to be exact. Alana’s blazer is indigo. 

When she gets to school, no one talks to her in first hour, and as she walks to Biology, the old dread settles into her bones like she’s sinking into an ice-cold bath. Maybe she’s still unseen after all. Maybe she shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. Maybe—

“Hey,” Connor says when she walks into the classroom. He’s carving patterns into his desk with a ballpoint pen, and she’s so relieved that he said hi to her that she doesn’t even tell him off for vandalism. 

“Oh, hi, Connor,” she says. “How’s your morning been so far?”

“Pretty shit,” he says. “You?”

“Yeah, me too.” She hesitates, because she doesn’t want scare him off. “It’s better now, though. I like this class.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, and then: “Yeah, me too.”

In Creative Writing, Zoe tells Alana she likes her blazer. She smiles when she says it, and Alana smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that the beginning of A GALAXY GALS SUBPLOT I spot?? it just might be.....


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me last week, proudly displaying a 7k word chapter: this is the longest chapter yet!  
> me this week, slamming down an 8k work chapter: ThIS iS tHe LoNgESt cHAptEr YeT!!

**hey hansen**

_Hi Connor!!_

**did u do the bio homework**

_Yeah! Do you want me to send you the answers?_

**no I just need help with the last question**

**wow way to assume???**

_Sorry!!_

_Sorry_

_It’s just that you don’t do your homework a lot!_

**yea I know i was kidding. actually doing it today tho, cynthia is on my ass about it**

_What can’t you figure out with the last one?_

**the chemical formula :/**

_Oh! That’s actually easy, you just need to visualize it!! Pretend you’re adding together chemical structures_

_The ones you’re good at drawing, you know?_

_Imagine what it’d look like if you combined the two structures of the reactors together, and draw the product. And then write down the names of the elements in the resulting structure, and that will be the answer :)_

**oh ok**

**hey that’s actually a really good way to do it**

**that’s how you do it?**

_No, I do it how the teacher shows it on the board, but I figured you’d be better at that way since I think you like visual learning better._

_Like drawing things and looking at pictures!_

_Sorry!!!_

**hey don’t apologize i understand a lot better this way. u rlly helped**

_Oh I’m glad!_

**so u rlly like science huh**

_Yes! Especially Biology and stuff, I’m really interested in environmental science especially_

**and trees**

_Yeah, and trees :)_

**thats p fuckin cool**

_Not really…_

**yea it is! Ur trying to save the planet thats cool**

_Thanks!_

_I always thought it would be cool to start an environmental group at school, you know? Like start a club where we plant trees and recycle and things. I think it’s important to start setting an example for that stuff early on in life, research shows you’re more likely to be environmentally conscious later in life if you’re taught to be as a teenager or child!_

_That’s probably really weird, sorry_

_We can talk about something else sorry_

_How are your new meds coming?_

**dont be sorry, it wasn't weird**

**the new meds are whatever**

_???_

**like**

**they mess with my appetite and i feel rlly spacey**

_Oh :(_

**yeah its whatever**

_If it makes you feel better, you can typically adjust to those kind of side effects! The meds I’m on right now made me really sleepy at first, but it kind of went away after a while. Your symptoms might still pass, it’s only been like a week, right?_

**not even that. 5 days.**

_Don’t worry, then_

**that’s pretty hypocritical, coming from you**

_:(_

**joking**

_Just remember that even if these pills don’t work, that doesn’t mean other ones won’t!_

**yeah whatever**

**let’s talk about something else**

**when are u getting your cast off?**

_Oh, not for quite a while._

**oh that sucks**

_I’m sorry_

_I don’t know why I said that_

_I’m actually getting it off next week_

**oh**

**ok**

_I’m sorry. Sometimes I get panicked when someone asks me something and I just make something up_

_I’m sorry it’s annoying and weird and not good I’m sorry!!!_

**dude i’m not offended or whatever**

**I’m in no position to lecture u on ur weird habits lol**

_I’m sorry!!!!_

_So sorry_

**hey its ok don’t worry about it**

_Sorry!! I don’t know why I did that I’m sorry_

**evan it’s fine**

_Sorry!_

***

They’re doing Shakespeare in English; _Julius Caesar_ , to be exact. Alana has a lot to say about it, first to drag Shakespeare for including a line about mechanical clocks in the play when mechanical clocks didn’t exist in Roman times, and then to criticize the lack of depth in the female roles in the play, and then—well, it’s a lot more, and Connor listens and nods along because he gets the feeling not many other people put up with her chattering and he doesn’t really mind. The stuff she says is actually pretty interesting; it’s a lot better than what a majority of the people in this school have to say. 

He really doesn’t mind Alana. She’s smart, and she likes to read, and she doesn’t mind if he listens more than he talks. And she gives him her notes to copy when he falls asleep in class. As far as friends go, he wouldn’t mind having her as one, or whatever. She’s not terrible. 

He’s been on the meds for a week now; it’s Friday of the third week of school. He’s still not sure if they’re working or not. Mainly he just feels kind of spaced out. But he hasn’t gotten itchy and irritated in the mornings since he’s started taking them, so there’s that. And he hasn’t gotten into a huge fight with Larry since that day they’d fought about the decision to switch his medication. He still hasn’t thanked Zoe for getting Larry to change his mind about that whole thing, though. They haven’t really talked since he’d snapped at her last week. Whatever. 

The gum pack full of pills is still in his dresser drawer. He still hasn’t stopped thinking about it. But—

“Alana,” the kid two desks over hisses. “Come over here and help us finish our packet. I don’t get the irony in Antony’s eulogy for Caesar?”

“Oh,” Alana says, hesitating, looking pained. Connor looks over and that fucking guy is one of those student council kids that didn’t even care when she’d left them to sit with Connor. And now all of a sudden he wants to ask her for help. 

“Hey, fuck off,” Connor says. “If you really want her help maybe you shouldn’t only be nice to her when you want something from her.”

“Oh, sorry, dude, I can’t hear you over the sound of you being a friendless loser who sticks his nose into shit that’s none of his business.”

“Great _fucking_ comeback, can you _teach_ me how you came up with—”

“Sorry, Mike, I haven't even finished with my own packet yet,” Alana says. “I’ll help you if I have time at the end of class, okay?”

Mike rolls his eyes and turns his back on the pair of them. 

“You really didn’t have to get involved,” Alana mutters, but she’s smiling down at her paper, her face half-hidden by her hair. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Connor says. “He’s a dick.”

“I mean, he’s really—no, yeah. Yeah, he is.”

Connor grins at her, and she looks so surprised at it that he almost laughs. 

“You can be quite nice, if you try,” is all she says, turning back to her packet. “Have you got the question about the irony in the eulogy?”

“Yeah—it’s the repetition of ‘honorable’ that Antony uses in contrast with describing the conspirators’ dishonorable actions.”

“You are so smart,” she says, writing down the answer in her perfectly manicured handwriting. 

“Yeah, not really.”

“If you try you are.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, just flips a page of his textbook to find the next answer. Alana really isn’t that terrible at all. 

***

Connor acquires more weed at the end of the day on Friday, and spends most of the weekend high. He doesn’t really know if he and Larry and Cynthia fight about it or not; he’s too high to remember or care. He also doesn’t know if it’s safe to smoke while on his new meds, but since the high doesn’t really feel any different, he doesn’t worry about it too much. 

Zoe’s door stays locked the whole weekend. 

He doesn’t really worry about anything too much. 

***

On Wednesday, Evan gets his cast off in the morning, and is therefore absent in Biology. Connor isn’t in a good mood because he’s fully sober for the first time since the weekend, and somehow Evan being gone doesn’t help. The fact that Evan had lied about when he was going to get his cast off last week is also still kind of bothering him, although he can’t say why. They haven’t talked about it; Evan had apologized so profusely that once he had finally stopped, Connor had decided to never bring it up again in case he set off another round of _I’m sorry_ texts. Whatever. Evan gets his cast off today, and that’s what matters, really. 

“I think we should have a little get-together to celebrate Evan getting his cast off,” Alana says during lunch. 

Jared stares at her. “Who says ‘get-together’? Don’t you just mean we should all hang out? Or are you planning to like, host a dinner party?”

He’s been sitting with them since last week; although he’d claimed he had other people to sit with who were just absent that first day, he hasn’t been sitting with anyone else since then. Connor thinks he’d probably just made those people up to sound less pathetic than he is. 

Alana rolls her eyes at him. “I mean that we should go out together.”

Connor opens his mouth to tell her to _retract that statement immediately,_ but Jared is already making a meal of it. “Sorry, Alana, I know I’m _irresistibly_ attractive, but I just don’t think this is going to work _out_. It’s cute that you want to go out with me, but see, I’m _gay_ , and—”

“Oh, shut up,” Alana says. “I’m gay too, and either way you know that’s not what I meant. I thought it’d be nice to go out and have dinner or something—you know, together, as acquaintances. To celebrate Evan getting his cast off.” She tilts her chin up. “But if you don’t want to—”

“Sorry, you’re gay?” Jared says, finally seeming to catch up with what she’s saying.

“That is not even close to the most important part of what I was saying.”

“You’re _gay_?”

“Lots of people are, Kleinman, can you just let her fucking finish?” 

“This is _important_ , Murphy, you’re a _straight_ so you wouldn’t understand—”

“Okay, I’m actually fucking gay too, so—”

But Connor doesn’t get to finish, because Jared makes a kind of splutteringly uproarious sound and falls off of his chair, and the next thing they hear is hysterical laughing from under the table. 

“Sometimes I wonder if he’s real or just a walking meme,” Alana says thoughtfully, peering under the table to watch Jared roll with laughter on the cafeteria floor. “Should we help him up?”

“No, let him stay down there. Please.”

She laughs. “So I’m thinking I’m just going to make a group chat so we can get all the details worked out. It can be something very simple, you know? I just feel Evan would appreciate if we did something to celebrate.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I can add you to the group chat?” She looks under the table again. “Jared, you too?” He must give her some kind of affirmative, because she looks up, satisfied. “I’ll use Kik, maybe? Or GroupMe? Hey, what’s your sister’s number?”

“ _Zoe_?” Connor says, aghast.

“Oh, I know she knows Evan so I thought it’d be nice to invite her since—you know. Evan doesn’t know many people and—anyway. It’d be nice to have her come too.”

“You know Zoe?”

“We’re in Creative Writing together; she’s really nice,”Alana says brightly. “Do you mind if I add her to the group chat or not?”

Connor doesn’t really know how to feel about this, but—Alana knows Zoe, has been talking to Zoe, and she doesn’t seem to be put off the idea of talking to _him_ as a result of that so—maybe this isn’t the end of the world. 

“Yeah, do whatever,” he says. 

“I won’t invite her if you—”

“No, invite her. I’ll need her to drive me either way, so.”

Alana raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on that. “Here, put her number in my phone.”

“I can’t believe all three of us are gay,” Jared’s muffled voice says from under the table. “The Three Gaysketeers. Oh my god, can we call ourselves that?”

“ _Definitely_ not,” Connor says. 

“Can we call the group chat that?”

“ _Definitely not_ ,” Alana echoes forcefully. “Get up from there, you’re going to get all kinds of germs on you.”

Jared emerges from under the table, grinning and rumpled. “Can we get pizza for this little _get-together_?”

“I’ll give you that one,” Alana says, taking off her glasses and rubbing her temples. “Pizza it is.”

***

**[AlanaBeck has made a group chat with TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman, ZoeLovesJazz, EvanHansen, and FuckKik]**

**[AlanaBeck has changed the chat named to: Evan Got His Cast Off!!]**

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** who’s FuckKik lol

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** oh its murphy ofc it is lmaoooo EDGELORD

**AlanaBeck:** He didn’t have a Kik so I made him get one; he wasn’t happy about it

**FuckKik:** u literally decided on the ONE group chat app I didn’t already have, ofc I wasn’t happy???

**FuckKik:** ur username is stupid too kleinman 

**EvanHansen:** Thanks for this, guys!! This is really nice, we didn’t have to celebrate or anything

**ZoeLovesJazz:** yeah we do! I bet you’re excited about getting the cast off!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** Jared I don’t know you that well so hi I’m Zoe!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** LMAOOOOO I KNOW WHO U R HAHAHAHA

**EvanHansen:** Jared :((((

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** ;))))))));;):):));));)

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** so A promised me pizza where/when r we gonna go?

**FuckKik:** are we just gonna ignore the fact that ur being rlly weird?

**AlanaBeck:** Georgio’s is good! It’s not too far, either. Any other suggestions?

**EvanHansen:** I’ve never been there, but if you say it’s good I trust you!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** it’s super cheap, too! We could go this Friday/Saturday if everyone is free?

**AlanaBeck:** I’m not free Friday, I’m tutoring underclassmen for the ACT.

**AlanaBeck:** Saturday is open, though!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I can do saturday 

**EvanHansen:** Me too!

**FuckKik:** yeah same 

**ZoeLovesJazz:** yay! So maybe around 12-1 then? 

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** i fucc w it

**AlanaBeck:** What kind of way of agreeing to plans is that?

**ZoeLovesJazz:** how are u real???

**EvanHansen:** Thanks for arranging this, guys, I really appreciate it :)

**AlanaBeck:** No problem, Evan! Our pleasure :)

**ZoeLovesJazz:** see you all on Saturday then!

**[TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman has changed the chat name to: the 3 gaysketeers ]**

**[FuckKik has removed TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman from the chat]**

**ZoeLovesJazz:** omg connor come on

**[ZoeLovesJazz has added TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman to the chat]**

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** fuck u murphy

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** the older Murphy nt u zoe ur fine

**[AlanaBeck has changed the chat name to: Evan Got His Cast Off!!!]**

**AlanaBeck:** I’ll see everyone on Saturday, thanks for helping me make the plans!

***

On Saturday, Zoe drives them both to Georgio’s. They don’t talk much in the car; they haven’t been talking much at all these past two weeks. She cranks up her music, he makes a half-hearted complaint, she cranks it up louder, and they fall into silence. He wants to say something, wants to break the tension, but he can’t think of anything to say that isn’t hurtful or stupid or strange. He wonders how much of people’s lives are spent in the silence that comes from wanting to say something and not having the words. 

He’s not very good at this whole trying to get better thing. 

Georgio’s is a quaint hole-in-the-wall type place on the outskirts of town; the inside of the restaurant is furnished with dark wood paneling and warm, dim lighting. The clattering from the kitchen can be heard the minute they walk in, and the tables are filled with groups of senior citizens and students from the community college. It’s not a place Connor would ever go by himself, but he has to admit it has a certain homey charm. 

“They’re sitting over there,” Zoe says, pointing to the booth in the corner. Sure enough, Evan and Alana are already sitting side by side and pouring over menus together. Jared, thankfully, doesn’t seem to be here yet. 

“Murphys!” Alana says delightedly when they approach the table. “You’re right on time. Have a seat—here—” she flags down the waitress “—could we get some more menus? Thanks.”

“Hi,” Evan says, a good deal more timidly but still with a measure of excitement. He shoots Connor an awkward half-smile from across the table but doesn’t seem to be able to meet Zoe’s eyes; Connor wonders how well they actually know each other. 

“Hey,” Connor mumbles, accepting a menu from the waitress. There’s about a billion different kinds of pizza, some with flavor combinations that sound like they might be joke dishes. He didn’t think dried cherries could be a pizza topping, but apparently he’s wrong. 

“Is it weird having your cast off?” Zoe asks. 

“Oh, um—I mean a little, I mean my arm looks kind of weird now? B-but it’s good, also, to have it, um, to have to—I mean, to have it off, sorry. It’s, um, it’s a lot less itchy?”

Zoe smiles at him sympathetically and launches into a story about how she has a friend who broke his elbow and then had to go to physical therapy after he got his cast off because the joint was all locked up and wouldn’t bend. She always seems to have something to say around other people, even Evan, who’s possibly harder to hold a conversation with than a very nervous brick wall. Connor is the only one she ever falls into awkward silence with. 

But he doesn’t get much time to ruminate on that, because Jared arrives and derails every single train of thought Connor has ever had. 

“‘Sup, heteros,” he says, and drops into the booth right next to Connor, which is unfortunate, because Connor is probably going to end up killing him as a result. 

“What did you just call me?” Alana asks, straight-faced, and then adds, “You’re late, _by_ the way.”

“ _Fashionably_ late,” Jared fires back, and peers over Connor’s shoulder to look at the menu. “We _have_ to get the one with the cherries, you guys.”

“I knew you would say that,” Alana says tiredly. “I’m thinking the margarita sounds good? And maybe a plain cheese, too?”

“You are so boring.”

“I think we should let Evan choose, since it’s his celebration,” Zoe says innocuously, and Jared rounds on Evan with an evil grin. 

“Yeah, Evan, how about _you_ choose?”

Evan goes bright red and mumbles something into his menu, one hand tugging at his collar uncomfortably. Now that Connor sees it, one of his arms is thinner and paler than the other. It looks kind of weird, but he wouldn’t say that because it seems like something Evan would probably get super self-conscious about.

“Dude,” Jared says, “your arm looks _weird_.”

“Sorry, I—sorry, um, I know? I—”

“I vote the veggie combo pizza and the four cheese pizza,” Connor says loudly before Jared can say anything else tactless or try to force Evan, the most anxious and indecisive person at the table, to make a decision about what pizza everyone should eat. 

“That’s a good idea,” Alana says just as Jared opens his mouth again. “Evan? Opinions?”

“T-that’s a good idea, um, I—we can do that?”

“Zoe and Jared?”

“Works for me,” says Zoe. 

“I still want to try the one with the cherries.”

“Order a small one for yourself, then,” Zoe proposes. “I’ll split the extra cost with you if you let me have a slice. I want to try it, I bet it’s super weird.”

“I think we’re kindred spirits,” Jared says with a grin. “One small cherry pizza it is. Hey, what else is on there?”

Zoe and Jared look at the other toppings on the cherry pizza while Alana waves the waitress over again, and they order. They also get a bread basket, which is unforgivably delayed considering the amount of time they’ve been here already, and it’s really fucking good—Zoe actually moans as she stuffs it into her mouth. 

“Our mom is on a gluten-free kick right now,” she explains with her mouth full. “This is literally heaven compared to the shitty rice bread or whatever that we have right now. _Heaven_.”

“You’re literally about to put pizza with cherries on it into your mouth in a bit, so that rice bread might be looking pretty good soon,” Connor says dryly, and she rolls her eyes at him, already reaching for another piece of bread. 

Evan gets more comfortable the longer they sit at the table; after about forty minutes he can actually even look Zoe in the eye when she’s talking to him. He still isn’t talking much, but he soaks in the conversation like a desert in the rain. Connor gets it—when you’re used to not having friends, hanging out with other people can feel like a novel experience. And Evan seems to thrive off of it; with Zoe and Alana’s encouragement, he gradually gets more talkative until he can even stave off Jared’s mockery with little more discomfort than an awkward laugh. It’s kind of cool or whatever—Connor likes the Evan that he sees once the other boy relaxes a little. Not that he didn’t like Evan before it’s just—nice to see him when he’s not so nervous. He has a nice smile when he’s not using it to mask painful awkwardness or covering it with his hand. Connor wishes he could see it more often. 

Maybe that’s what getting better is about. Letting the version of yourself that’s not so closely guarded out into the world. Letting your walls down a little. 

The pizza comes, and Jared and Zoe do a hand clasp of solidarity before each picking up a slice of the cherry pizza taking a bite. The others watch them in fascinated and disgusted silence. 

“It’s actually. . .” Zoe pulls a face and takes another bite. “Oh my god, it’s weird.”

“It’s not as bad as I’d thought it’d be? Like it’s not making me gag,” Jared adds thoughtfully. He, too, takes a second bite. “I think it might be an acquired taste.”

“Please—oh my god, please don’t, um, eat that entire pizza so you can acquire the taste,” Evan says instantly, prompting a wicked grin from Jared. “I—I don’t want to be the person who has to deal with you getting sick from it and throwing it up? Sorry, just. You know.”

“You can’t control anything that I do,” Jared says, already reaching for a second slice. 

Alana rolls her eyes and starts passing out slices of the cheese and veggie pizzas. The soft dough and salty cheese are near-therapeutic after months of Cynthia’s “clean” eating habits, and Zoe and Connor exchange satisfied glances over the crusts of their slices. 

The rest of the lunch is surprisingly normal. Connor doesn’t lose his temper, no one exchanges biting remarks, everyone seems relatively happy. It’s a pretty low standard to have for a good day, but Connor’s grown used to things going wrong. But somehow, today, in this moment, they manage to have a good time. They have a good-natured squabble over the bill; Jared tells a tasteless joke and gets chewed out by Alana; Evan tries to compensate for Jared by stuttering his way through some stupid joke about trees; they get the waitress to take a picture of them for Zoe’s instagram. 

And maybe it’s because he’s on new pills now—maybe Connor wouldn’t be able to enjoy this moment without them—maybe that’s the only reason he doesn’t flip out and start punching things. But maybe it’s just because he can have a moment of happiness, just one, without ruining it. The pills might be working, they might not be working. Either way, Connor thinks he has a taste of what it’s like to start getting better, even if it’s only for one night. 

***

On Monday, Zoe walks up to their table at lunch and sits down without giving an explanation. Evan chokes on his sandwich, and Jared thwacks him on the back so hard he chokes even harder. Once he recovers, he turns to Zoe, bright red, eyes streaming, and says, “H-hi.”

It’s so anticlimactic that Connor actually laughs. 

“What happened to sitting with your jazz band friends?” he asks. “Mandy and Carl, or whoever it is that you usually sit with.”

“Mindy and Carl,” Zoe corrects. “And Mindy just cheated on Carl with Fareed, and I don’t feel like dealing with that drama, so I’m sitting here to avoid it.”

“Wow, way to make us feel special,” Jared says, rolling his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, and it’s because you guys are cool.”

“Your brother sits here.”

“Okay, so he’s not cool. And you’re not really either. So really just Alana and Evan.”

Alana and Evan both beam at her and she winks conspiratorially at them. 

“I resent that,” Jared says. 

“You can’t resent it if it’s true,” Connor says. 

“She said you weren’t cool either, don’t get too excited.”

“I know I’m not cool. I’m ironically cool. Post-ironically cool. Post-cool.”

“Sometimes I wonder what you’re smoking,” Jared says, tilting his head and looking at him.

“I smoke weed, Kleinman, there’s no need to wonder,” Connor says matter-of-factly. 

“Oh my _god_ , are you fucking high right now?”  
“Yeah, he is,” Zoe says without even looking up, and yeah, okay, maybe he is. Just barely, but he’s definitely feeling it. “He _stunk_ in the car on the way to school.” He appreciates that there’s only the barest touch of resentment in her voice.

“Whatever,” Connor says. “Point is, I know I’m not cool.”

“I think you’re cool,” Evan says, very quickly and all at once, and then goes the exact same shade of bright red he’d been while he was choking. 

“See, this is why Evan is my favorite,” Connor says, and grins when Evan leans over for a fist bump. 

“Anyway,” Zoe says. “I’m sitting here now. You’re welcome.”

The table feels a little more complete with her there, but Connor would never tell her that.

***

When Connor emerges from the school after the final bell, Zoe is already waiting by the car, nose buried in her phone and her free hand twirling her keys on one finger. He’s sobered up by now; sixth hour was a disaster—they’d had a free period and the resulting buzz of conversation had amplified the dull roar in his head until he could barely think straight. So he’d kill for another joint, but he wants to have a conversation with Zoe, and he’d rather do it sober. And he’d rather do it in the car, now, where she can’t storm away or ignore him. 

He wants to talk about the medication. 

“Took you long enough,” she says crossly, unlocking the car and getting in. 

“The bell rang _five minutes_ ago.”

“Yeah, and I’ve been waiting for you _two minutes_.”

He bites back a hurtful reply. He has questions he needs to ask her, questions about why she’d cared enough to talk Larry into getting the new meds. Questions about why she’d bothered when it’s so obvious Connor is such a fuck-up. 

It takes him while to work up the courage to talk; the frozen silence is so much easier than making an effort. It’s not until they’re pulling out of the traffic jam of cars in the school parking lot and get on the road that he finally says something. 

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” When he glances at her, her expression is closely guarded. “About something Mom told me a while ago. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago, it was—whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Okay,” Zoe says, her voice measured.

He waits for a second, thinking she’ll elaborate, but when she doesn’t he says, “She—she told me you were the one to talk to Larry. About the new medication. She said you were the one that convinced him to—you know. Change his mind.”

She purses her lips and takes the next corner a little too sharply; he grabs onto the door handle and winces. “Yeah, and then you were fucking pissed about it, so. It doesn't matter. I thought you wanted new meds; I thought you asked for them. So I'm sorry it made things worse, or whatever.”

Connor cringes. “Fuck—shit—no, that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s sure what it sounded like you meant,” she says flatly. “Whatever, Connor, we don’t have to talk about it.”

“I _want_ to talk about it,” he blurts out. “I did want the meds, I—I don’t know, Zoe, my head’s all messed up and I can’t think straight all the time, and I don’t know. I don’t know. I was scared of getting help and I was mad at them for just deciding without talking to me about it—I—it’s not that I didn’t want the meds. It was never that I was mad that I was getting help. It's just that it was so sudden and they kind of went over my head. And I guess I was scared of getting help, of getting pills, and then of it not working and everyone realizing that it isn’t something fixable and that it’s just _me_ that’s like this.” He takes a deep breath, his fingernails biting into his palm. He can’t look at her. “It wasn’t about you. I wasn’t angry at you. I’m not angry that you talked to Larry. I’m grateful. You didn’t need to help me, I’ve never done anything that nice for you.”

“Oh,” Zoe says in a small voice. “I—oh.”

“Yeah.” He takes another shaky breath and uncurls his fists. “I don't know—Mom said that you told Larry he should listen to me, and that you were worried, and just—I didn’t know you thought any of that. I thought you hated me. You have every right to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she says. Her voice sounds kind of wobbly, but when he finally looks up at her, her eyes are fixated on the road and her expression is firm. “I—I mean, sometimes I hate you. Sometimes you’re fucking awful. It’s like—you’re the scariest thing in my life, and not just because of what you’ve done to me, it’s because of what you’ve done to yourself, too, I—I’m scared that’s going to happen again, Connor, I—”

And then she starts crying, really hard, and he’s so horrified that for a second he can’t even see straight, because he’s trying to _thank_ her and now she’s _crying_ , and oh god—

“Zoe,” he says. “Oh my god, Zoe, pull over.”

She swerves into the entrance of a neighborhood and parks the car. Swipes at her eyes. Takes a deep breath. 

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“You didn’t, it’s just—you know, it’s everything, sometimes it just bursts out.” She makes a vague gesture and lets out a little half-laugh, half-sob, and then wipes her eyes again.

Connor realizes that he knows exactly what she’s talking about. 

“Listen,” she says after a minute. “I don’t hate you, okay? We have our problems, and you’ve been horrible to me, and I can't ignore that or look past that. Some of the stuff that’s happened—whatever. Without being an emotional hoe, none of that means I still don’t worry about you a lot. I want you to get better. That’s why I talked to Dad. It doesn’t have to be this big thing, but like—I just want you to know that. I feel like you feel like you’re alone in this, and you don’t have to be.”

“Oh,” he says. His mouth feels dry and clumsy, and he can’t think of a single thing to say except _thank you thank you thank you_. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and reaches back to pull her hair into a ponytail in a movement so brisk and sensible it almost cancels out the fact that she’d been sobbing a moment earlier. “Can this talk be done now? I feel really weird and awkward and I don’t want to cry again.”

“Yeah, we can be done.”

“Okay, good.” She takes the car out of park and pulls back onto the road. “You’re still not cool.”

“Yeah, I’m _post_ -cool.”

“Are you still high?”

“Fuck, I _wish_.”

After that, Zoe points out a dog at a stoplight at one point, and gives her phone to Connor to take a picture of it for her; other than that they still sit in silence, but it seems a little less suffocating than before. 

When they pull into the driveway, Connor dawdles getting his backpack out of the backseat while Zoe hurries ahead, just like every other day. But today she only gets as far the garage before turning back. 

“They’re fighting; Dad must have come home early,” she says when Connor raises an eyebrow at her. “You can hear them even through the garage door. You want to drive around the block until they’re done?”

Connor stares at her for a minute, a little shocked at having this offer extended to him, and then nods. 

“Okay, let’s do it.” They get back into the car, and Zoe hands him the aux cord and her phone. “Pick something happy.”

“You’re letting _me_ pick the music?”

“Off of _my_ phone, don’t read too much into it.”

He rolls his eyes and scrolls through her Spotify until he finds a Led Zeppelin song he remembers they used to listen to together on family road trips before everything got awful. 

“Oh, nice,” she says. “Haven’t heard this in a hot minute.”

“Yeah, well, you’re hearing it now.”

She laughs and turns the song up a little, and he leans his head against the cool glass of the window and lets the music drown out the white noise in his head. 

***

Tuesday is a bad day; Connor feels detached and kind of out of his body. It’s not the kind of really bad day he usually has—he thinks the pills are responsible for that—but. But. He’d been hoping that this somehow would magically stop happening with the meds. And he’d been wrong. 

Jared grates on his nerves at lunch and during French; Zoe and Alana have the good sense—or simply don’t care enough, if he wants to be pessimistic, which he does—to leave him alone. Evan shoots him worried glances and asks him if he’s okay during lunch when Connor is just staring off into space and not eating. That’s kind of nice; usually when Connor spaces out like that people skirt around him with caution and stare. 

On the way home from school, Zoe plays the Beatles and doesn’t talk much, jumping a little in her seat when he slams the car door shut. He fiddles with his phone, staring first at the dark empty screen and then out of the window. 

_Hey, do you want to come over to my house in a bit?_

Connor narrows his eyes at Evan’s text. If he weren’t so numb, he’d be shocked—he doesn’t remember the last time someone invited him over to their house. There was that party that Dana Goodman threw in freshman year, and that had been disastrous. And here Evan is inviting him over like it’s not a big deal. Except that it is, because Connor doesn’t spend much time with other people, and he’s willing to bet Evan doesn’t either. 

**not rlly having a good day :// maybe not a great idea**

_Yeah, I kind of noticed_

_Not that you were being obvious or that I’m assuming I know what you feel like or anythign, sorry!!_

_I just thought you maybe wanted to spend time with someone to help pull yourself out of it. Sometimes it’s bad to be isolated when you’re not in a good headspace!_

_But if you don’t want to, that’s okay!! Whatever you feel is best, I didn’t mean to put pressure on you, sorry_!

**omg stop fuckin apologizing.**

**I'll come over. thanks for offering**

**probably not going to be pleasant to spend time w tho**

_That’s okay! We don’t have to talk or anything, we can just watch TV and do homework or something._

_Or whatever people do when they hang out_

**lmaooo** **it’s funny that u think I do my hw**

**send me ur address**

“Can you take me to Evan’s house?” he asks Zoe. 

She glances at him and frowns. “Right now?”

“Yeah, he’s about to send me his address.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mom would have my head if she knew I just dropped you off somewhere without asking first.”

“Then tell her I jumped out of the car and ran off to smoke pot in the park, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Okay, I’m definitely not going to tell her _that_ ,” Zoe says. “We’re going home and you can ask her if you can go like a normal person. I guarantee you she’s going to say yes. Doing something that won’t give her a heart attack for once isn’t going to kill you.”

Connor grumbles a little, but finds that he has no real energy to argue with, and so sinks back into sullen silence, trying not to resent that last bit too much. It’s not like he’s actively _trying_ to give Cynthia a heart attack. 

But as it turns out, Zoe is right, because Cynthia is delighted at his request to go to Evan’s, both because she’s glad he’s actually asking permission, and because she seems to be incredulously happy that he’s made a friend. It’s kind of sad. Connor doesn’t really know when her expectations for him got this sad. 

He walks to Evan’s house because Zoe has already disappeared into her bedroom, and he feels like she’ll probably be pissed off if he goes and asks her to drive him. They’re not really there yet. Evan lives pretty close, anyway, and it’s nice out, so it doesn’t really matter. 

Evan’s house is in the next neighborhood over; the houses here are much smaller and closer together, with patchier lawns and cracked sidewalks. Not a _bad_ neighborhood—they’re still in the suburbs for god’s sake—but it’s obvious that Evan and his family do not live the same way as the Murphys. Connor feels a little out of place when he walks through, like he’s too big for his surroundings, and not in a good way. 

Evan’s mom opens the door; she’s wearing hospital scrubs and a really big smile. “You must be Connor!” she says brightly. “Come on in, sweetie, you can just kick your shoes off at the door—just right there—there we go, come on in! It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Hansen,” Connor mumbles awkwardly. All of those words are kind of a lot to process when he’s this spaced out, but he’s guessing Evan doesn’t have people over very often; she has the same kind of incredulous happiness Cynthia had displayed earlier. 

“Oh, please, call me Heidi! I’ll be leaving for work in a bit; I’ll leave money for takeout on the counter so you kids can have dinner—are your parents okay with me not being here?”

“They don’t give a—I mean, yeah, they don’t mind.”

Evan yells something indistinguishable from upstairs, and Heidi smiles indulgently. 

“He’ll be downstairs in a minute, he just wanted to clean his room in case you wanted to go upstairs. Come into the living room and sit down while we wait.”

Connor nods and awkwardly trails after her into the living room. The walls are covered in photos of Evan and his mom; there doesn’t seem to be anyone else featured except in one really old photo that also has a man that looks a little like Evan, if Evan had stubble and a sharper jaw. Heidi sits him down on the sofa, asks him if he wants water, asks him if he wants juice, asks him if he wants a snack, and then asks him to tell her about himself. 

“Um,” Connor says. She’s so sincere and energetic that he doesn’t really know what to make of her; he’s never really met an adult that seems so genuinely enthusiastic about meeting him. At the same time, he also can see perfectly how Evan is a product of this household—there’s something about his earnestness, his eagerness to please, his willingness to listen that he shares with his mom. “I’m really not—”

“Hi Connor,” Evan says breathlessly from the doorway of the living room, and Connor looks up to see him standing there with a flushed face and the hand that used to be encased by his cast stuffed deep into his pants pocket. 

“Hey,” Connor says, relieved that he’s been saved from having to talk about himself. “I—hey.”

“Evan, honey, I need to go upstairs and get ready to leave, okay? I should be home around midnight; there’s money for food on the counter. Connor, sweetie, it was nice meeting you! I hope we’ll see you around here more often.” She pats Connor on the shoulder and ruffles Evan’s hair on the way upstairs. 

Evan combs his hair with his fingers rather painstakingly and then says, “Sorry about her? She’s really—happy that I have, you know, a friend over. Sorry. It doesn’t happen often.”

“Not even Jared?”

Evan winces and shifts a little. “Not really, no.”

“It’s okay, he’s pretty lame anyway.” Connor’s pleased to see Evan laugh a little at that and relax. “My mom was really excited about me hanging out with friends, too, so. We make a good pair.”

They don’t really do much until Heidi leaves; Evan’s kind of tense and awkward, and Connor is too detached from everything to really put in an effort. Once she’s gone, Evan puts on a nature documentary on the TV—and then apologizes profusely for doing so—and they lay on the floor and do homework. Or rather, Evan steadily works his way through his homework, and Connor stares at his math worksheet until the numbers start to blur together. 

After a while of him doing this, Evan says quietly, “We—um, there are some bookshelves in the next room if you don’t feel like doing homework? Or you can c-change the channel? Or we can talk or something, sorry, I just thought you’d rather do something quiet because you’re having a bad day, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Connor says almost automatically. “I’ll go get a book or something, don’t stress about it.”

Evan kind of snorts at that, and then Connor realizes how impossible that is for him and laughs a little too. When he stands up, Evan holds out his fist without looking up, and after a second, Connor reaches down to bump it. 

“Magic good vibes,” Evan says. “Today’s probably a good day to share them?”

A little blossom of warmth opens in Connor’s chest, and he laughs again. “Thanks.”

The Hansens’ bookshelves are mainly filled with self-help books and science tomes—mainly biology and botany, unsurprisingly—but there are a few shelves devoted to fiction. He looks through a set of romance novels with names like “The Countess’s Forbidden Lover,” a few classics, and some children’s books before settling on a beat-up copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring._ Somehow he’s not surprised that Evan likes Tolkien. Connor’s betting the Ents blew his fucking mind. 

When he gets back to the living room, Evan is sitting on the floor with his phone in one hand and a takeout menu in the other, an expression of extreme concentration on his face. 

“Trying to decide what to order?”

Evan jumps a little and looks up almost guiltily. “I—oh, I, um, I was just about to call in? Sorry, I don’t even know what you want? I was planning on getting Chinese—”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Connor says. “I’m not picky, seriously.”

“Do you want to see the menu—”

“Evan, seriously. Whatever you’re having.”

Evan nods and looks back at the phone in his hand. And then at the floor, for a very long time. He looks deeply uncomfortable. 

Connor can’t figure out what’s going on for the life of him, and then, all at once, the realization hits. “Oh—do you not like phone calls?”

Evan goes really, really red and abruptly stands up, backing away from the center of the room a little. “No—no nononono, t-that’s not what—um, that’s—I, uh—sorry, no, that’s not the problem, I—”

“Hey,” Connor says, taking a step forward and then thinking better of it. “Hey, Evan, it’s okay if you don’t. A lot of people don’t like phone calls. Hell, even Larry likes meeting his clients in person better, okay? It’s okay, I’m not gonna laugh at you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Evan mumbles. “It’s just—it’s really stupid, it’s really embarrassing, I—you know? I should be able to. Talk on the phone, I mean. It’s really stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Connor says firmly. “It’s not your fault, _phones_ are stupid.”

“I just—”

“Shut the fuck up, it’s not a big deal. Here, give me the phone and I’ll call them if you want.”

Evan blinks at him. “Oh—would you do—d-do that? You would do that?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Connor’s terrible at comforting people, and he has no idea how to treat a friend who’s nearly having a panic attack over a phone call, but apparently, offering to do it for them helps because Evan relaxes and mumbles another apology before handing him the takeout menu and sitting back down.

So Connor orders for them, and Evan stammers out his gratitude, and they go back to sitting in comfortable science, the nature documentary playing quietly in the background. 

Evan was right; it’s nice not to be alone when he’s feeling like this. Having someone else there, even if they’re not saying much, kind of grounds him. He still feels terribly detached, not quite in his body, but he’s not so irritable about it anymore; he can just be tired and quiet and not worry about having to make an effort. He can just. Be here. He can just be here with Evan, and it’s not hard or complicated, and he doesn’t have to pretend he’s feeling better than he is.

He hasn’t known him for very long, but he thinks Evan is probably one of the nicest people he’s ever known. If Connor doesn’t fuck it up, he thinks they might be really good friends. 

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for this.”

Evan looks up from his history textbook and frowns. There’s a red mark on his cheek from where he’d propped it up on his hand. “For what?”

“Just. You know.” Connor makes a vague gesture, as if that will somehow help Evan understand better. “You know. Getting it.”

Evan looks at him for a moment, and then just nods. “Yeah, it—I, uh, it sucks being by yourself on the bad days? Or, like, having to pretend it’s okay, it—it sucks. And we’re friends, you know? And I—yeah.”

It strikes him that Evan, like Connor, has spent a multitude of bad days by himself, having to pretend it’s okay, not having friends to sit with. His mom obviously works a lot, Jared never comes over, his dad clearly isn’t in the picture anymore. That’s why he gets it. Because Zoe was right when she said Connor isn’t in this alone. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, anyway. Thanks.”

By the time Connor gets home, his stomach is full of Chinese food, his homework is completed, and he feels a little more grounded in himself than he’d been before. Maybe that fist bump thing works after all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks!! all facts about science are made up, all facts about Shakespeare are absolutely accurate (there were no mechanical clocks in Rome get rekt pwussyboi). Ents, for those of you who don't know, are a species of sentient trees in the Lord of the Rings universe, and they absolutely would blow Evan's mind. 
> 
> -my Tumblr, which is a mediocre communication device, is [here](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com/)  
> -you may let others know of the existence of this fic by reblogging [this post](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is)  
> -that moment when the whole cast starts singing during You Will Be Found, and it literally sends shivers through your entire body??? smash that kudos button if you agree  
> -consider leaving a comment and making my day. think of it as your daily good deed, if you will.  
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	9. Interlude (Cynthia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks!! this fic has over 1k hits now!!!! how exciting is that??? super super super super exciting. thank you to everyone who's been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos so far. I love y'all. 
> 
> BEFORE we get started: I'm moving out and going to college at the end of this week. I'll have orientation, my first few classes, etc, for most of next week, so I'm going to be very busy and might not be able to post the next update on Wednesday like I usually do. I'm going to try and write ahead so I'll have one or two chapters pre-written so the update schedule doesn't get messed up too much, but it'll probably be pretty touch-and-go for the next week or two. So if you don't see another update until next weekend or so, just know that I'm running around at a new school in a new city trying to adjust--the next update will be as soon as humanly possible. 
> 
> I was going to give this interlude to Larry, but then I decided we're not quite there with him yet. So it's going to Cynthia. Anybody have a map?

Before Cynthia Murphy had been Cynthia Murphy, she had been Cynthia Warren, a happy-go-lucky socialite who worked for the novelty of it and not because she’d needed the money. She was never close to her sister; they only see each other on holidays these days. But she’d been a star child for her parents to point at when she was younger—cheerleading, a college education, a job, a string of upstanding, wealthy boyfriends who always brought her mother flowers when they came over—and her sister had always been a little resentful of the fact that no matter what she wanted to do, Cynthia did it first, so maybe that’s no big surprise. But her relationship with her parents was always good. She’d always had lots of friends, had been the life of the party. Cynthia Warren had wanted a little family in a big house in the suburbs; she’d wanted the white picket fence, the sleek green lawn, the gleaming kitchen with stainless steel appliances. She’d wanted to go to PTA meetings, to pack her kids’ lunch, to have dinner parties with other moms she met at yoga. She’d wanted to have an uneventful, peaceful, happy little life for her family.

She’d wanted a lot of things, and now all Cynthia Murphy wants is to wake up in the morning and see that her son is still alive. 

She’d been the one to find Connor that day last year. Nothing has been the same since then; they’d always known he was struggling, that there was something wrong, but since then their family has been paralyzed, frozen, stuck in the horror of that day and the fear of what they almost lost. 

She still has nightmares about it. It’s just—there’d been so much blood. And the way his face had looked, slack and unmoving, and how there had been no note, and—and—and. She tries not to think about it. They'd all gone to therapy afterwards; the therapist had said it was a trauma, to find him like that, and all she could think was where she had gone wrong, how she could have messed up so badly that her son would try to kill himself like that and not even leave a note. 

It bursts into her mind at inopportune moments, whenever she sits still for too long, whenever she’s not bustling around cooking or cleaning or driving or talking. It bursts into her mind like a bomb, and leaves all the rest of her thoughts shattered. 

She tries not to think about it.

The front door opens and then closes, very quietly, which is how she knows it’s Connor and not Larry or Zoe. He shuffles around in the foyer for a minute, and then comes walking past the kitchen, pulling up short when he sees her sitting at the kitchen table. 

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, smoothing her hair back from her face and hoisting up a smile. “How was Evan’s?”

“It was fine,” he says. He looks a little defensive, like he thinks she’s suspicious of him. She’s not. He could have been anywhere, and she wouldn’t start a fight about it—he’s back here now, and he’s not angry, and he’s safe, and he’s sober. If he was at Evan’s, and Evan sent him back like this, he can go to Evan’s any time he wants. 

“That’s good, honey. I’m glad you’re making friends.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

She can’t talk to him. She hasn’t been able to talk to him in such a long time. No matter what she does, it’s wrong; he’s a foreign country without a map to help her navigate him. She doesn’t ever know what to say, because everything is full of the potential for a fight like ripe fruit that’s filled with rottenness. 

“Did you eat over there? We have leftovers in the fridge.”

“Yeah, we ate.”

“What did you have?”

“I don’t know, whatever.”

“Connor . . .”

“Chinese food, we had Chinese food. Is Larry home?”

She sighs. “Your father is in the study.”

“Is Zoe home?”

“She’s out with a friend. She should be home soon.”

He nods and then just stands there, unmoving in the doorway to the kitchen. Half in and half out, like he’s not sure if he should come closer. She wants to reach him so badly. She doesn’t know how. 

“You haven’t told me much about how the new meds are,” she says finally. “We have another appointment with Dr. Lee about it on Friday, so you can talk about them with her.”

“Okay.”

“So how are they?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Fine.”

“Do you feel better?”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, and then abruptly looks very tired.

“Con,” she says. _I’m trying,_ she wants to say. _Explain it to me if I don’t understand,_ she wants to say. _I want you to be happy,_ she wants to say. “Honey.”

“I don’t feel better,” he says, and she can’t tell if he’s telling the truth, or trying to hurt her, or both. 

“You don’t?”

“Not really. It’s a little better, I guess. It’s just—I don’t want this to be the best I can be. I don’t want this to be it.”

That, she can understand. A little better but not good enough. “We’ll talk about it with Dr. Lee. Maybe they just need more time to work.”

“Whatever.” He turns away. “I’m gonna be upstairs.”

“Okay,” she says to the empty doorway. 

Maybe she’ll have a glass of wine. It’s shocking she’s not an alcoholic yet; she has enough excuses to be drinking all the time. 

She doesn’t know how or why any of this has happened to her family. She doesn’t know how to fix it—not her relationship with Larry, not Connor’s anger issues, not Zoe's desperate attempts to keep things together. Larry doesn’t worry enough. Zoe worries too much. None of them know what Connor is thinking. And Cynthia is caught in the middle of it all, trying to fix it all, and driving herself insane in the process. 

She pours herself that glass of wine. She’ll figure it all out tomorrow. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip, Cynthia's not doing too good. go click that next chapter button and see what Connor's thinking about all this.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I always talk about how long these chapters are but. the minimum word count I've set for myself for each chapter is 5k--as in, I always want to have at least enough plot to fill up 5k words each update. this is 10k. consider it a consolation gift in case I can't update on time next week?

Connor’s been on the meds about a month before Dr. Lee finally decides to change them. She kept saying to give the first set of pills time to work, but by the time the days are inching further and further into October, she agrees that this isn’t the prescription for him, and starts working out a new one. 

The leaves are starting to turn and the air is getting crisper; the further they get from the misery of the tepid, empty summer, the more Connor’s mood lifts. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t despair when everyone agrees the meds aren’t working, and he needs new ones. Or maybe it’s just because he’s busier now, and has less time for despairing. 

Having friends is a strange and unfamiliar thing that Connor doesn’t quite know how to deal with but—it’s nice. He goes to Evan’s to do homework when he’s having a bad day; Alana can usually bully him out of bed when even opening his eyes seems like a lot of work. Jared is—well, Jared, but he and Connor can kind of coexist without fighting too much these days. 

The weirdest thing, though, is waking up after about a week of being on the second set of meds, and feeling—good. Maybe _good_ isn’t the world, but—he feels _okay_. Not irritable or itchy or numb or fucking disassociated or anything like that. He just feels like he just woke up on a Wednesday to go to school, and like he can smell the coffee from downstairs, and like he’s going to get up and out of bed to go eat any minute now. 

It’s a ridiculously low standard to have, but he feels so good about it. 

The first thing he does before even swinging his feet out of bed is text Evan: **think these new pills are rlly good? feeling not like shit today**

A second later, Evan responds with: _Hey, me too! I think it’s going to be a good day :)_

Zoe isn’t in the bathroom when Connor gets out of bed, which is a blessing; he has time to shower and touch up his nails—the polish is starting to chip enough to really annoy him, but not enough to warrant a whole fresh coat. 

When he gets downstairs, Cynthia and Larry are sitting at the table eating toast and not talking to each other. The silence and the smell of coffee is thick in the air. 

“Hey,” Connor says after a second of standing in the doorway. “Where’s Zoe?” Having a good day does not mean he really feels like dealing with his parents alone, and lately he and Zoe have an unspoken agreement to deal with them together. 

“She woke up feeling sick,” Cynthia says, “She said she’s still probably going to school, but she’s just sleeping in a little.”

“She was okay yesterday?” Connor says, pouring himself a mug of coffee and putting bread in the toaster.

“Well, she’s a little sick today.”

“She got sick just like that?”

Cynthia looks at him for a long moment, and then says, “Con, honey, it’s a _girl_ _thing_. She’s going to be fine.”

“I mean, I was just _curious_ ,” Connor mumbles. “I didn’t think she was _dying_.”

“It’s sweet that you were worried.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Don’t use that tone with your mother,” Larry says into his newspaper almost automatically. They both ignore him. 

“How do you feel today, hon?”

Connor jumps a little as his bread pops out of the toaster. “Better. Okay.”

“You feel okay?”

“Yeah.”

She beams at him, and he feels a little pang inside of him at the thought that she’s probably getting all _encouraged_ when he’s just going to let her down again. 

Dr. Lee says he really needs to work on his negative self-talk. He’s having some trouble with that. 

The three of them don’t really talk much after that, but at least it’s not a hostile silence. At least the silence isn’t preceded by fighting. 

Ten minutes before they usually leave for school, Zoe comes downstairs with a heating pad held to her stomach and a miserable expression on her face. She’s not wearing any makeup, her hair hasn’t been brushed, and she’s still in the sweatpants and tank top she sleeps in. 

“Let’s go,” she says crossly. “I want to stop and get a coffee on the way to school.”

“We have coffee here, sweetie.”

“Unless you can make a caramel macchiato the way Starbucks does, I’m not interested,” Zoe says. “Connor, you ready? Your chariot awaits.”

He grabs his backpack from under the table and drops his plate into the sink. Once they’re out the door, he says, “Do you want me to drive if you’re not feeling good?”  
“Yeah, and end up in a five car pileup? I don’t think so.”

That almost ruins his okay mood, but he lets out a long, quiet breath and reminds himself that she hadn’t been _exactly_ unjustified in saying that. He may not have been in a five car pileup, but he _had_ T-boned someone at an intersection while high as a kite. 

They go through a Starbucks drive through, and Zoe orders a venti caramel macchiato and a croissant. In the school parking lot, she slams Ibuprofen, chases it with coffee, and then looks over at Connor. 

“Connor,” she says, “be so glad you don’t get periods.”

“Mom said you had a _girl thing_ ,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Mom grew up in the unfortunate frame of time between the first and second waves of feminism and therefore doesn’t believe in destigmatizing the period.” There’s a short silence, and then she says, “Hey, I didn’t really mean that about you driving my car. It’s just—you know.”

“You don’t trust me,” he says, staring straight ahead out of the windshield so he doesn’t have to look at her. “And I don’t really blame you.”

“It’s not that. Just. Whatever. It was a bitchy thing to say.”

“Yeah, it kind of was,” he says, and they grin at each other half-heartedly. 

“I know you’re trying to get better,” she says. “I can tell.”

“Yeah, don't get too excited. I’ll find a way to let you down.”

“Hey, don’t say that, I—”

“Zoe,” he says heavily. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay, we don’t have to.” She pauses, taking a sip of coffee. “Hey, do you want part of my croissant?”

He takes part of her croissant, and they eat together with the radio on until it’s time to go into school. 

***

**AlanaBeck:** Hello acquaintances! 

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** okay so wld it kill u to call us friends or what

**AlanaBeck:** I was thinking we should do something together for Halloween!

**AlanaBeck:** Jared, please don’t be difficult. 

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** difficult is my middle name >:)

**FuckKik:** i thought it was “insanely cool”?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** that’s my TITLE fucc u murphy

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** or should I say TITle. My tittie.

**FuckKik:** u are so obnoxious I wonder how u are alive sometimes

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** :):):):)))):):):::):):))))

**AlanaBeck:** Guys!!! Halloween!! What do you want to do?

**FuckKik:** it’s literally the second week of October

**AlanaBeck:** It’s better to plan in advance, if we don’t start talking about it now we’ll end up doing nothing. 

**ZoeLovesJazz:** she has a point!!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** Lena Katowski is having a bonfire, we could go to that?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I'm not going to a bonfire w a bunch of juniors lmaoooo

**ZoeLovesJazz:** it was just a suggestion???? Do you have better ideas??

**AlanaBeck:** Guys, please don’t get combative, I want this to be fun.

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I'm not going to a bonfire w a bunch of juniors

**FuckKik:** yea I think we all got that part??

**EvanHansen:** My mom is working the night of Halloween, maybe you guys could come over here? We’d have to limit it to just us, though, sorry, my house isn’t very big and I don’t think my mom would like to have a ton of people over while she’s not here. 

**EvanHansen:** But we could get pizza and pass out candy and stuff? And maybe watch Halloween movies?

**EvanHansen:** Sorry if that’s a terrible idea!! Or if it sounds boring or something!! Sorry!!

**AlanaBeck:** That actually sounds like a great idea, Evan! We could all bring food if you’d like so the stress of hosting would be reduced! One person could bring chips/salsa, one person could bring dessert, etc. 

**AlanaBeck:** Just throwing ideas out there! 

**EvanHansen:** That would be very helpful, thank you Alana! :)

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** i will bring dessert!!!!!!!

**FuckKik:** it makes me suspicious that ur so eager to help…..

**EvanHansen:** He’s just excited bc he has brownies that he makes that are really good!

**EvanHansen:** Omg not weed brownies though, I’m so sorry if it sounded like that 

**EvanHansen:** That’s not what I meant sorry!!!! Sorry

**FuckKik:** chill, I didn’t think kleinman was going to make pot brownies, he probably buys oregano from josh manefort for $50 a gram lmao

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKlienman:** a) who is josh manefort b) u wouldn’t catch me dead buying weed bc it makes me PARANOID c) why do u hate me so much, I am adorable and gay

**FuckKik:** a) the school pot dealer b) it’s clear u don’t buy weed if u don’t know who he is c) bc ur a piece of shit :)

**AlanaBeck:** Okay, moving on, now! Who wants to bring chips and salsa!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** Connor and I will bring chips, salsa, guac, and candy for eating/passing out!

**AlanaBeck:** Thanks Zoe! I will bring a few two liters of pop to drink.

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I will also bring alcohol, since no one else volunteered to do tht

**EvanHansen:** JAred I don’t think my mom would be okay with you guys getting drunk at my place

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** omg live a little hansen

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I’m not opposed to the alcohol myself, but if Evan isn’t comfortable with it then we shouldn’t bring it 

**AlanaBeck:** Agreed!

**FuckKik:** yea agreed

**EvanHansen:** Thanks guys :( I don’t want to be lame about it, but I would just be really nervous the whole time if you brought it. And I'm not supposed to be drinking with the meds I'm on also. 

**EvanHansen:** Sorry if that’s weird, I just would rather not have it!!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** we want you to have a good time! I'm glad you told us so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with it :D

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** fine whatever floats ur boat acorn

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** hey u know what can we skype real quick? 

**EvanHansen:** Yeah! Give me one second

**ZoeLovesJazz:** damn, wonder what they’re talking about

**AlanaBeck:** Their own personal business, I’m sure

**FuckKik:** something stupid i’m sure

**AlanaBeck:** Thanks for organizing the party! I’m glad we can do something together :)

***

Connor shows up at Evan’s house without texting him first on Friday afternoon with a pizza and a bag of m&ms. It takes Evan a really long time to get to the door—he’s probably agonizing over whether not answering the door is rude enough to warrant the anxiety of answering it—but once he does, his expression brightens at the sight of Connor.

And—that’s something new. People don’t usually look happy to see Connor. 

“Hi Connor—did you text me?” he says. “I must have missed it, sorry, I just—I started, um, started doing stuff right away when I got home and I wasn’t looking at my phone? Sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault, I didn’t text,” Connor says. “I brought food to make up for it though, so.” He holds up the pizza idiotically, like Evan might have not seen it. 

“Oh.” Evan blinks at him and then smiles. He has a really nice smile. “Oh, come on in, sorry. It’s okay that you didn’t text? I wasn’t really doing anything—sorry, that sounds really pathetic—I was doing things but not things I can’t do with you here so it’s really not an issue? I’m rambling, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Connor says; it’s a reflex by now. 

“I thought you were kind of having a good day?” Evan says when they’re sitting at the kitchen table eating pizza. “Sorry, it just kind of—kind of, um, seemed that way. At school.”

“Yeah, I was,” Connor says. There’s a short pause, and then he adds, “Hey, I don’t want to hang out with you just when I’m having a bad day. You’re pretty cool on good days, too.”

Evan flushes and becomes very interested in the pizza box label. “Oh—oh, yeah, sorry—I—sorry, okay.”

They’re silent for a minute or two, not looking at each other. 

“So you’re not having a bad day?” Evan finally blurts out. 

Connor shrugs, picking the crust of his pizza slice. “No.” He takes a deep breath and looks up to meet Evan’s eyes. “I’ve actually had like—three good days in a row. Like. Days where I don't feel awful. Three of them.” The words come out jumbled and stupid and he’s instantly furious at himself for saying them, but Evan just nods. 

“That’s good, though. You, um, you know that, right? That’s good.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you’re kind of freaked out about it.”

Connor feels a shock of pleasant surprise that Evan _gets_ it. “Yeah, I’m kind of freaked out. Because I’m—I don’t want to let anyone down. If I start having bad days again.”

“You’re not—you’re not g-going to let anyone down?” Evan says. “Hey—when I can’t order pizza on the phone when you come over, or—when I ask you to ask the teacher a question for me in Bio—do you get, um, do you get let down?”

“No,” Connor says, frowning. “Of course not.”

“Okay,” Evan says. “Well, there’s really no difference. It’s not fair if you’re okay with me having bad days but not with you having bad days.” Connor laughs, and Evan shakes his head. “Connor. You have to—um, learn to forgive yourself a little?”

“That’s a therapist line.”

“Y-yeah, well, I go to therapy a lot. So. I’ve kind of—picked up a few things.”

“Okay,” Connor says, “okay. Can we talk about something else? What were you doing before I got here? Please don’t say homework. It’s Friday.”

Evan goes red. “Not homework, exactly? Just, like—essays. Sorry.”

“ _Essays_?”

“Sorry. Um, yes.”

“For _what_?”

“A competition, for like—these competitions, for scholarships for college? I have to write essays for them. It’s just—you know. College is expensive.”

“Your mom can’t—?”

“I—not really, no.”

“Oh,” Connor says, sitting back, feeling a weird pang of guilt shoot through him. He feels the same way he’d felt when he’d first walked through Even’s neighborhood—too big for his surroundings, painfully aware that this is not how he lives. “How are they going?”

“Oh, you know. It’s just—a lot.” Evan is visibly uncomfortable with the topic; his eyes keep darting around the table and he’s tugging at his collar absently. “You know.”

Connor does not, in fact, know, and feels extremely awkward about it. “We can go to the living room so you can start working on them if you’d like?” 

Evan looks pained. “I actually—I have everything upstairs, do you mind—?”

“Yeah, let’s go upstairs.”

Connor hasn’t been in Evan’s room yet; when he walks in, it’s meticulously neat—unsurprising—and rather small, with blue walls and a laptop open on the bed. It’s also strangely impersonal; he knows Evan has been living in this house his whole life, but there’s hardly anything on the walls. No band posters, no photographs, nothing. There is a bookshelf—he can’t see what books Evan has on it from the doorway—and a rolled up poster in the corner, and on the desk there are piles of homework, a book entitled _Crossroads of Canopy_ , and a photograph of Evan and his mom. Everything else is so neat and empty it could almost be a hotel room.

“Sorry,” Evan says, looking at his room. “It’s kind of—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. “It’s a lot neater than my room; you’d have a heart attack if you saw mine.”

Evan shrugs and sits down on the bed, picking up the laptop. Conor throws the bag of m&ms down on the desk and sits down on the desk chair. 

“Do you have any ideas for the Halloween party?” Connor asks after a while of Evan typing and frowning at his laptop screen. 

“Sorry—ideas?”

“For costumes, you know.”

“You’re wearing a _costume_?” Evan says, looking horrified. “ _We’re_ wearing costumes?”

“Evan, it’s Halloween.”

“Yeah, but—sorry, I don’t usually do anything for Halloween? My mom’s usually working, and Jared—I usually just pass out candy. So.”

“Okay, well, you need a costume or Alana will have your head.”

“I guess you’re right,” Evan says uncertainly. “What—um, what are you going as?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, shoving a handful of m&ms into his mouth. “I haven’t dressed up for Halloween in a long time either.”

There’s a very long, somewhat depressing silence where they’re both extremely aware of how lonely their lives have been up until this point. 

“I remember I was Spiderman one year,” Connor says finally. “But I don’t think I’d go as that again.

“I—um, I went as Ron Weasley one year when I was younger,” Evan says. “Because Jared w-wanted to be Harry Potter? We died my hair orange with Kool-Aid, it was awful.”

“Oh my god.” Connor points at Evan’s laptop. “Keep working; I'll look up costume ideas for us, okay?”

Evan smiles at him—sometimes Connor really doesn’t know how Evan has gone friendless for so long; you’d think someone would have caught on to the fact that having Evan Hansen smile at you is a really good feeling—and keeps typing. Connor passes him the bag of m&ms, and they fall back into comfortable silence. 

***

The walk home from Evan’s house is peaceful; there’s a spring in Connor’s step and the sky is going purple. He needs to ask Zoe if she has any old clothes that are red that he can cut up—Connor saw a Prince Phillip costume picture online and decided that Evan absolutely has to be Prince Phillip for Halloween because they kind of look similar. Evan had protested, saying that being a Disney prince is kind of childish, and anyway, he doesn’t have any red clothes to make a cape and hat out of. They’d bargained for a bit, and finally reached a compromise—Evan will be Prince Phillip, Connor will procure materials to make an outfit from. Oh, and Connor has to let Evan pick his costume. Evan hasn’t decided what it’s going to be yet, but Connor’s sure he’ll make him suffer. 

Cynthia is sitting in the living room watching the Great British Bake-Off when he gets home; she looks like she’s staring through the TV more than she is staring at it. 

“Hi,” he says. 

She startles, and then smiles up at him. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in. How are you?”

“Fine,” he says, cautiously. Conversations with his mom are always a minefield; he never knows when he’s going to make her upset. Sometimes he thinks it’s almost worse than talking to his dad—at least Larry gets _angry_. Cynthia just cries, and then he feels like shit. 

“That’s good, sweetie. How’s Evan?”

“Oh—he, uh, he’s okay.”

“That’s good,” she repeats, rubbing her temples. He wonders if she and Larry have been in another fight. 

“Is Zoe home?”

“She’s upstairs in her room.”

“I have to ask her about something,” he says. “Enjoy the showstoppers.”

She glances back at the TV screen and chuckles tiredly. 

Connor bounds up the stairs two at a time and immediately goes to Zoe’s bedroom; the door is closed, but it’s not like she won’t be excited to hear about Evan’s costume so he throws the door open and—

Alana is in there, and they’re _very close,_ and—and—then they’re springing away from each other, wiping their mouths—Alana had been wearing dark lipstick and it’s on Zoe’s face—straightening their clothes—

And Zoe looks _so angry_. 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me,” she says in a voice that sounds like Larry when he’s really, really furious. 

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Connor says. His heart is racing and he can’t really see straight and he doesn’t know _why_. “Are you two—”

“It’s none of your business,” Zoe hisses. “The door was _closed_ , how _dare_ you—”

“You have a _lock_ , you should _use_ it.”

“A closed door means don’t come in, Connor,” she says furiously. “It shouldn’t matter if it’s locked or not.”

“I mean, if you two are screwing around behind my back, I—”

“What do you mean, _behind your back_? I don’t have to tell you anything about what’s going on in my life—you don’t have the right to that, you haven’t earned that—”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he demands. His hands are shaking. 

“You know exactly what it means,” she says, standing up. Alana’s lipstick is still smudged on her mouth; it’d be funny if they weren’t both so angry.

“Maybe I should go,” Alana says quietly. Her eyes are very wide, and she’s not looking at either of them. They both ignore her. 

“Why the hell are you so angry about this, anyway?” Zoe snaps. “What’s it to you?”

“If you two are—” He can’t put into words why he’s so angry, he never can. So he does what he does best: lash out. “You’ve been pretending to try and fix things with me just so you can screw around with my friends, right? Or maybe Alana just tried to be my friend so she could get with you? Or—”

“I think I should go,” Alana says, very loudly, and stands up. They both stare at her. She wipes her mouth again and squares her shoulders. “I’ll see myself out.”

She walks out of the room and downstairs. Neither of them follow her. Her voice bids Cynthia goodnight very courteously from downstairs, and then the front door opens. And closes. And then it’s just him and Zoe, glaring at each other, shaking with rage, full of furious words to throw at each other. Just like it’s always been. The two of them, and their anger. 

“Neither of us were pretending anything to get with each other,” Zoe says, her voice steely. “That’s just you and your fucking victim complex, pretending like you’re the one that’s getting hurt in every situation, refusing to see that sometimes it’s you, Connor. It’s _you_. _You’re_ the one lashing out over nothing and blowing things out of proportion and—” She stops. Visibly bites down on her tongue. “What’s your problem?”

Connor’s nails bite into his palm. He thinks he might be drawing blood. “You _really_ want to ask that fucking question, Zoe? Cause I only have about a million of them. Not that you ever seem to care.”

“Yeah, you have a million problems, and I get that, I get that you’re sick and you need help, but guess what?” she says. “That doesn’t give you the right to treat me like shit, okay?”

“Oh, right, because _you’re_ the one that’s being treated like shit—”

“Yeah, I am—and you’ve chased Alana away, too, you—all you do is take away the things that make me happy, and you—”

“I’m not the one taking something away!” Connor shouts. His vision is going white; there’s a buzzing inside his head. “You’re the one taking away my friends for yourself—Zoe, I don’t even have that many friends, can’t you date someone else? Why do you have to—you always want to take away whatever I have for yourself, even though you have _so much_.”

“What’s going on up there?” Cynthia’s voice calls from downstairs. 

They both go quiet, staring at each other. 

“Do I need to come up there?”

“ _No_ ,” Connor says. 

“I’m coming up there,” she says because she doesn’t believe him, she never believes him, and a minute later she appears in the doorway. “What happened?”

There’s disappointment in her voice, and he can tell she’s going to blame him. He’s the bad guy, again. He’s always the bad guy, because Zoe always wants to paint him as the villain and they always listen to her. 

“Zoe was—”

And then Zoe’s eyes go very wide, and this weird spasm goes through her like she wants to say something but can’t and—Connor realizes that if she hasn’t told him about Alana and liking girls and everything, then maybe she hasn’t told their parents either. And she probably thinks so little of him that she’s assuming he’ll out her right here, on the spot. 

“ _Whatever_ ,” he says, with as much spite as he possibly can. “I came in without knocking and Zoe flipped.”

“Zoe, sweetie, there’s a reason you have a lock. It’s to keep people from coming in when you want a little privacy.”

“ _No_ ,” Zoe says, and she sounds like she’s about to cry. Her fists are clenched at her sides. “It’s to keep Connor out when he wants to kill me. _That’s_ why I have a fucking lock.”

There’s a long, horrible silence where neither of them will meet his eyes. 

“What the fuck ever,” he says, and his voice sounds dead even to his own ears. Everything inside him has gone abruptly numb. “I—whatever.”

He turns and brushes past his mom, goes out into the hallway, goes into his room. Flops down on his bed. Stares at the ceiling. Thinks, for the first time in a while, about the stash of pills in his dresser. 

Closes his eyes. Eventually, goes to sleep.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s momentarily confused as to why he’s still fully dressed and laying on top of the covers. Then, horribly, the memory of last night seeps in like cold water. 

He’d been awful, he knows that. He’d barged into Zoe’s room—a room he hasn’t been inside for so long that what it’d looked like had been a surprise to him—and yelled at her for kissing Alana, and accused her of trying to steal his friends, and said she always tries to take everything that’s his. 

And she’d been so angry. He doesn’t even want to think about what she’d said back. He feels sick. 

The worst part is that he’d been doing so well; he hadn’t snapped like that for a while. He’s been reasonable, rational, even _happy_ this past week. And he had to ruin it, like he always ruins it, and he had to make Zoe miserable too. 

Maybe this whole getting better this is pointless. Maybe he should just stop burdening the world with his existence. 

It’s been a while since he’s thought like that. 

He’d thought he’d been getting better. 

_You have to learn to forgive yourself._  

He gets out of bed, checks his phone—he has an alarming amount of text messages, so he immediately slams his phone back down without reading them, because he doesn’t think he can deal with that right now—and goes downstairs. 

Zoe is down there. She’s padding around the kitchen in socked feet, putting fruit in the blender with one earbud in. She doesn’t look angry or upset, but—that’s probably because she hasn’t seen him yet.

She turns around. 

“Connor,” she says, and the word is hard in her mouth. 

“Hi.”

She doesn’t say hi back, just stands there and looks at him with an expressionless face. Then she yanks out her earbud. “I’m making a smoothie,” she says flatly. “Are mom and dad up?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t turn away from him. She keeps her eyes on him at all times, like if she turns her back he’ll lunge at her, and that hurts more than anything, mostly because Connor knows he deserves it. 

“Listen,” he says. “I want—”

“If you want to talk about last night,” she says, “you have to wait for me to finish making this, and then you have to listen to what I have to say first.” She tilts her chin up, almost defiantly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, and sits down at the kitchen table. “I’ll wait.”

She eyes him for a moment, and then keeps putting fruit in the blender. The silence is almost deafening until she turns it on, and then, as the blender runs, they stare at each other across the empty space of the kitchen. 

He hopes it’s a good sign that she’s at least willing to talk. 

“Okay,” she says, sitting down across with him and setting down the smoothie glass on the table with more force than necessary. “Are you going to be reasonable or not?”

“Um. Yeah?”

“Okay. Do you understand why I was so angry last night?”

“I—”

“Because I don’t think you do,” she says, cutting him off. “First of all, you came into my room without knocking, without permission. My room is my safe space, okay? I don’t have anywhere else I can just not worry about you—about whether or not—it’s the only place I have where I’m totally safe. It’s locked for a reason. It’s locked because mom and dad felt like they needed to protect me from you. I’ve only started unlocking it recently because I’ve started trusting you more. And you—you fucking barged in there exactly like I used to be afraid you would. You came in there and got angry—I didn’t know what you were going to do. I didn’t know if you would hurt me or Alana, or—anything. I’ve only recently stopped worrying so much about whether you would do stuff like that, and now—” She stabs a straw into her smoothie angrily. Her eyes are shiny. “I don’t want things to go back to how they were. This—I’ve only started to feel like I have a real brother again, and I don’t want to lose that. Do you?”

Connor lets out a long breath. “No,” he says, and he means it. 

“Okay,” she says. “And about Alana—you have no part in what’s going on between me and her. It’s none of your business, and it has nothing to do with you. I’m sorry that you think we were manipulating you to get close to each other, but that’s not what happened at all. She’s your friend, she’s my friend, we’re all friends. And she and I just also happen to be a little closer. And I’m sorry you had to find out that way. We really were planning on telling everyone once we had things figured out between us.” She takes a deep breath and then closes her eyes. “I really like her, and I don’t want to scare her off, okay? And I’m scared that’s what happened last night.”

“Okay,” he says. 

“Fine,” she says. “Say whatever you were going to say.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through his hair, forces himself to keep looking at her. “I’m sorry for coming into your room without permission. I get why—why you don’t want me in there.” There’s a horrible lump in his throat that won't go away no matter how much he swallows. “I shouldn’t have barged in without knocking, I don’t know what I was thinking—I guess I thought we were there, when we’re clearly not. And I’m sorry about getting angry at you and Alana, I—I really want to fix things with you. I really want to keep her as a friend. And I understand I might have fucked both those things up last night, just because—when I saw you two together, all I could think was that—that you two—I don't know, that you were lying to me about being together and that it was because you hated me, and—because you were trying to cut me out of your lives, and—” his breathing is coming faster, and he just feels so miserable, and he can’t put into words how sorry he is, how much he wants to fix this. “—and I don’t know, it was stupid and unforgivable, and—”

And then, all at once, he’s crying, really hard, horrible deep gasping sobs that burst out of him like broken bones, and all he wants is for Zoe not to be there looking at it. Because men don’t do this. Boys don’t cry. Larry would kill him if he saw him like that. 

Connor doesn’t even remember the last time he’d cried.

“Oh, shit,” Zoe says. “Connor. Connor. Shit.”

He shakes his head, half-turns his body away. 

“ _Connor_ ,” she says again, in a tone so forcible that he’s pretty sure she could command an army with it.

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “ _What_ ,” he mumbles. His eyes are stinging. 

“Please stop crying,” she says, in a much gentler tone. “I didn’t mean to make you fucking _cry_ , I just wanted to—talk about what happened and tell you why it wasn’t okay, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up,” he mutters. “Give me a second.”

She leans back in her seat, frowning. 

After a moment, he sniffles his way into silence. It’s a weird feeling, the moment after you cry. Emptied out, washed away, like the ground after rain. 

“Okay,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—sorry. Just.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says.

“I don’t want you to think that I started—that I was crying to make you feel sorry for me, or whatever. Or to make you forgive me or something.”

“I wasn't thinking that,” she says. She’s still frowning. “Why would I think that?”

“I don’t know.” 

She sighs. “Okay. Listen, Connor. What you did wasn’t unforgivable. There are things you’ve done that are, but—that wasn’t one of them. I’m mad at you, but that doesn’t mean things are broken between us.” She takes a sip of her smoothie, furrowing her brows. “Are you going to come into my room again with permission?”

“No,” he says. 

“Are you okay with me and Alana? And you get that we’re not trying to hurt you or cut you out of our lives? It’s literally just something that’s making us happy when we’re both—you know. Life sucks. And we make each other happy. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Okay, then we’re good. Because you get it, and you’re trying to improve, and like—I get that part of it is you not being rational, and you can’t always help that. But mainly because you sat down here with me, and apologized, and listened to what I had to say. That’s why I’m forgiving you, not because you started crying.”

He takes a deep shuddering breath and nods. He doesn’t think he can talk right now. Out of all the people in the world, he got the best one for a sister, and he doesn’t know why it’s taken him so long to realize that. 

“And I’m sorry for some of the stuff I said last night,” she adds after a minute. “About, like—all you do is take away the things that make me happy. That’s not true. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“It’s kind of true,” he says, a little hoarsely.

“Self-pity’s not a good look,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It wasn’t true and it wasn’t fair. You were a total asshole last night, but that doesn’t mean I should have said it.”

There’s a short pause. Zoe glances at her phone, frowns. Connor is reminded of how many texts he has to deal with and shudders. 

“You’re going to have to apologize to Alana,” Zoe says, as if on cue. “She says she texted you last night, but that you didn’t respond? I think she’s still shaken up.” When Connor opens his mouth, she cuts him off. “She’s still going to be your friend, oh my god. You just need to apologize and explain. It’s not like you killed someone last night.”

Connor abruptly remembers something else about last night. “What you said—about me trying to kill—”

“Don’t,” Zoe says, very firmly. “I can’t talk about that. With you. We’re not there yet.”

Connor nods. That’s more than fair. There are some things between them that are too broken to even try and examine right now, and that’s one. That doesn’t mean they can’t fix other things. 

“Okay,” she says, “now go take your meds and text Alana so she won’t have a heart attack. And make coffee when you come back downstairs.”

“Can’t you make it?’

“No, you’re better at it.”

“You’re too lazy, is what I think you mean?”

“Literally fuck off.”

Right before he leaves the kitchen, he turns and looks back. 

“I was doing better,” he says. “Before last night, you know? I thought I was getting better.”

“You still are getting better,” she says. “You being here talking to me—apologizing—means you’re getting better. You never used to do that before. Getting better isn’t a straight line, okay?”

“How do you know that?”

She looks at him for a long moment. “Because there are things I’m trying to recover from too.”

And he doesn’t need to ask what those things are, because he’s responsible for most of them. But maybe that doesn’t mean they can’t get better anyway—getting better is fixing things, and then breaking them, and then fixing them again. 

***

_Hi, Connor._

_Zoe said you went and fell asleep so maybe you’ll see this in the morning._

_I really am very sorry about what happened tonight. I get that you’re upset because Zoe is your younger sister, and I’m involved with her, and you probably feel protective of her. Zoe also alluded to other factors being in play, such as your mental illness, and past history between the two of you._

_I just want you know that I really like and respect Zoe. As I’ve grown to know her better, I’ve found that we have a lot in common, and I admire so many aspects of her personality. I’ve never met someone who understands me as well as she does. She makes me laugh, she puts me at ease, and she’s always there for me, even when she’s having a bad day herself._

_I’m sure you know all of this—you know her better than I do—but I just want explain why she means so much to me. So you’ll get it, and believe me when I say that being with Zoe is not a way of hurting you, but rather a way to help us both be happy and heal._

_I know you have a mental illness, maybe several._

There’s a pause between this message and the next; Connor imagines that Alana had sat there, typing and retyping the next paragraph until it was perfect. 

_I do too. In Sophomore year, I was diagnosed with high-functioning anxiety. It’s made it difficult for me to make friends, to focus on anything but school, and to let myself relax enough to get close to others. I’ve only recently been able to forge relationships like the one I have with Zoe. But I’ve only recently been able to forge relationships like the one I have with you, too. And Jared, and Evan. I guess what I’m trying to say is that while my relationship with Zoe is important, my friendship with you is also important. I don’t want to go back to being lonely, and anxious, and isolated. Having people to talk to, people who understand, people who get the pressure I feel to be perfect, has been really helpful for me on my mental health journey._

_I’m sorry that message was so long!_

_I just wanted to tell you all of that so you understand that I value all of you equally—you, and Zoe, and Evan, and Jared. I hope that once you have time to calm down and process everything, you’ll believe me about that. You guys have become very important to me, and I don’t want to lose you._

_Anyway. Sorry everything happened the way it did tonight. Hopefully I’ll talk with you soon._

The messages are so careful, so perfectly written, so very _Alana_ that Connor is consumed with an all-encompassing affection for her. He knows that many other people—maybe _every_ other person except for her, and Zoe, and probably Evan—wouldn’t want anything to do with him after how he’d behaved last night. And it’s incredibly good of her to not only still talk to him, but to sit down and explain her intentions, and even apologize for the misunderstanding. 

**hey alana. i’m really sorry about last night.**

**that was totally unacceptable of me—both to burst in like I did, and to get so angry about something that has no impact on me.**

**i know you’re not with zoe to hurt me, or for any other reason than purely your own. i’m actually really happy for the two of you. i’m glad she picked you, you’re one of the very few people i can think of that deserves someone as great as her.**

**also, thank you for opening up to me about your anxiety. i'm glad that knowing me has helped you feel less isolated in whatever small way it can. Your friendship is super important to me, and I hope I didn’t make you feel otherwise last night.**

**sorry again for the way I behaved. you have nothing to apologize for. that’s all on me.**

Three of the other three messages Connor got last night is from Evan; he’d texted: _Hey, is everything okay? Zoe just texted me asking if anything happened to upset you while you were over here? I told her nothing happened, but now I’m worried ://_

Then, a few minutes later: _Okay, she says you’re asleep. Text me in the morning and let me know you’re okay! *fist emoji*_

Connor tells him that everything is fine, that it’d been a misunderstanding between him and Zoe, and he’s okay. He doesn’t want to go into detail—not only are Zoe and Alana clearly not telling people about the two of them yet, but Zoe hasn’t even come out to anyone but him and Alana, as far as he’s concerned, and he’s doesn’t want to reveal anything he shouldn’t. 

The last message is from Jared in the group chat. 

**[TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman has sent a video attachment: RIP VINE COMPILATION - I BET MY KIDNEY YOU’LL LAUGH]**

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** u guys have to watch this it’s so fuckin funny 

Connor grins at his phone, and goes downstairs to make coffee. 

***

Alana is absent in Bio on Monday because she has a student leadership conference one district over, which means that Evan and Connor sit together taking notes in silence. It’s funny how you don’t notice how much someone has become a part of your day until they’re gone—apparently, Alana is accountable for about ninety percent of the conversations they have in this class. 

Evan is quieter than usual; he keeps bouncing his leg under his desk and he’s further hunched over than usual, gnawing on the ragged edge of his thumbnail. Connor’s tempted to reach over and tap him so he can ask what’s wrong, but Evan’s jumping every time someone even so much as walks past his desk so maybe touching isn’t a great idea right now. 

He wishes he knew what to do when someone’s having a bad day. Evan always seems to know exactly what to say when Connor’s so deep in his own head that he can’t pull himself out, and Connor doesn’t know how to return the favor. 

It’s probably school stress. Connor himself has so much to do that he’s gotten to the point where he’s just going to ignore it and not study for anything at all. And since Evan isn't physically capable of ignoring a problem and not worrying about it, all of the tests and homework—not to mention those essays he has to write—are probably getting to him. That’s probably what it is. 

When the teacher turns his back, Connor clears his throat loudly so Evan turns to glance at him, and then holds out his fist. Evan smiles at him weakly and reaches over to bump it against his. 

“You okay?” Connor whispers and Evan nods, very rapidly.

“I just—I think I, um, I forgot to take my meds this morning? Or, like—I think that’s it, sorry, I'm not—I don’t know, I’m sorry.” But he’s not looking Connor in the eye, and he’s clenching and unclenching the hand that’s resting on his leg, and Connor just—remembers what Evan had said. About panic-lying when someone asks him a question he’s not ready for 

“Hey,” he says. “You know you’re allowed to have a bad day even if you’re taking your meds, right? The meds don’t take away all the bad days. You’re the one that told me that.”

Evan nods again, and flushes, and turns away, his shoulders still hunched. Connor wonders if he’d been right in calling Evan out on the lie. 

It’s just a bad day. They’re allowed to have bad days. 

Connor would kill for a joint. 

***

But the thing about bad days these days is that they pass. Connor has a less-than-ideal week—a little numb, a little irritable, a little exhausted—but it passes. The next week he feels okay again, and that’s a new feeling. To have the darkness pass, and fade into light after a while. He never had that before. 

The night of Halloween, he’s in an exasperated but good-natured mood; it’s almost time to leave for Evan’s house, and he’s inspecting himself in the bathroom mirror. His costume looks ridiculous. At least it’s not very elaborate; Evan had texted Connor a few days ago saying that he wants Connor to be an angel. 

**an ANGEL????**

_Yes :)_

**w h y**

_I think you would look good with a halo_

That had been the only justification for it, and Connor had been so disarmed by it that he hadn’t even argued any further. Zoe, once she finished laughing, had helped him piece together a set of fluffy wings from an old dance costume she had in the basement. His only other costume piece is a halo they’d bought at the Halloween store; Zoe had tried to get him to also wear a white button down to help him look more saintly, but he had scoffed at that and then flat-out refused. 

It’s habit not to wear anything light enough to show bloodstains. Not that he needs to anymore. But—still. 

“Hey,” Zoe says, popping her head around the bathroom door. “How’re you doing in there, Bella Hadid?”

“Who?”

“She’s a Victoria’s Secret Angel,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have you cat walking by the time the night is through. Hey, how do I look?”

She’s says she’s a Snapchat filter; Connor doesn’t have a Snapchat so he doesn’t really know what the inspiration is but she has gold glitter on her cheekbones and a little crown of golden butterflies. 

“You look nice,” he says. “I like the butterflies.”

She beams at him. “Your halo is adorable. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Larry is sitting downstairs when they go out to the car. He looks at Connor and frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Connor straightens his halo a little defiantly. Zoe looks between the two of them, her face tense, and then chirps, “Okay, we’re heading out to Evan’s, Dad! I’ll text you when we get there and when we’re planning to head back, okay?”

“Fine,” Larry says, looking back at the TV. “Your mother knows where you’re going?”

“Yeah,” Zoe says. Her voce is so bright that Connor can hardly believe she’d been looking nervous about the potential for a fight only a second ago. He supposes she’s pretty good at deescalating tense situations by now. “See you later, Dad.”

“Drive safe,” he says, and then they’re out the door, and Connor is letting out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. 

Zoe turns on Spooky Scary Skeletons when they get into the car, sending Connor a wicked grin, and then starts pulling out of the driveway, scanning the streets for trick-or-treaters first. It’s a little early—it’s not quite dark yet—but he can see a few younger kids with their parents starting to go door to door at the end of the street. 

“Hey,” she says. “Alana and I are’t—we’re not telling people yet? So could you just—”

“Of course I’m not going to say anything,” Connor says, a little nettled. 

“I just wanted to _remind_ you, I wasn’t _accusing_ you of anything.” The song changes to something from the Nightmare Before Christmas soundtrack; Connor sends a silent prayer that Evan won’t be playing similar music at his house. 

“Do you want to talk about—coming out, or whatever. Since I’ve already done it?” It’s cringe-worthy, but at least he’s trying. 

“Maybe later,” she says, thoughtfully. “I’m not really sure about what I want to label myself, you know? And we haven’t figured out if we’re really officially girlfriends or anything? I don’t know, I just have a couple things to work out myself before I can really think about coming out. Especially to Mom and Dad, just because—you know. They’re Mom and Dad. And I—” She pulls a face. “I’m usually the one that doesn’t cause trouble. Sorry—you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“So like—that’s just a whole other kind of pressure. Because when I come out, it’ll kind of be changing the way they see me. I don’t know, it’s a whole thing.”

“I get it,” he repeats. “But hey—whenever you’re ready. If you want to talk, or anything.”

She glances over at him and smiles. “Thanks, Connor.” Then she cranks up the volume on the radio so it screams _THIS IS HALLOWEEN THIS IS HALLOWEEN HALLOWEEN HALLOWEEN_ and any goodwill he previously felt towards her instantly disappears. 

Alana opens the door when they ring Evan’s doorbell; she’s wearing a set of black robes and a blue and bronze scarf. “Hi, guys!” She says. “Evan’s getting things ready inside, he said you can just put your shoes by the door and come on in—here, let me help you with the food—Zoe, your costume is so cute.”

“Thanks,” Zoe says, glowing. They send each other private little smiles, and Alana very quickly squeezes Zoe’s hand. “Yours, too—you’re such a Ravenclaw.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ glad you could tell—my dad said that he didn’t think people would recognize the scarf because in the movies the Ravenclaw scarves are blue and silver, but _I_ said people would get it even if they hadn’t read the books because of the robes, you know? Anyway—come on inside. Connor, nice wings.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. “Is Jared here yet? What’s he dressed as?”

Alana sighs, very deeply. “You’ll have to ask him; he’s entirely too pleased about it. He’s helping Evan in the kitchen, come on.”

In the kitchen, Evan and Jared are standing in front of the open oven. Evan has his hands on his hips and is watching while Jared attempts to scrape something off the bottom of the oven with a spatula that appears to be too short to reach all the way in. The smell of burnt marshmallow is filling the air. 

“I leave you two alone for _one minute_ , and this is what happens,” Alana says in an aggrieved voice. “What’s going on? Oh, and the Murphys are here, by the way.”

“I _accidentally_ dropped a marshmallow on the bottom of the oven while taking the brownies out to check on them—it’s an _easy_ mistake to make, anyone could have done it—and now it’s sticking to the bottom, and Evan’s worried that if we can’t get it out it’ll catch on fire and burn down the house,” Jared says, popping a pretty impressive squat to get a better angle. “Evan, do you have a longer spatula or something?” Then he grins. “There’s a dick joke in there somewhere.”

“I can check?” Evan says, glossing over the last part with a very subdued eyeroll. He looks—for lack of a better word—really great. He’s just wearing a grey shirt with a black vest and pants, but Zoe had given him red fabric from another old dance outfit for a really nice cape, and Heidi had bought red felt and made him a cap with a feather in it. He looks like he just walked out of a Disney movie. “Hey, guys,” he says to Zoe and Connor. “The—um, the pizza should be here any second so. Sit down or whatever? Oh, and you can put the chips and stuff on the counter there.”

Zoe sets down the food while Connor watches, fascinated, as Jared accepts a long wooden spoon from Evan and squats down again to try and scrape the charred marshmallow off of the oven. After a few minutes, he resurfaces and flicks a little black lump into the garbage can. 

“Got it. We can just let the oven air out for a second, and then we can put the brownies back in to finish baking.” He turns to Zoe and Connor. “They’re rocky-road brownies, you guys are going to lose your minds when you see how good they look.”

“They do look good,” Alana concedes, tearing open a bag of chips and dipping one in the guacamole. 

Zoe, however, is frowning at Jared with a confused expression. “Jared, what are you supposed to be, exactly?”

A broad grin spreads over Jared’s face. “You can’t guess?” 

She and Connor look at what he’s wearing: salmon colored shorts, a light blue button up, and boating shoes. “No?”

“I’m a _straight person_ ,” he says with far more delight than necessary. 

“You stole that from Parks and Rec,” Zoe says accusingly. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s not _hilarious_.”

They spend the night swapping embarrassing trick-or-treating stories and gorging themselves on candy and pizza; Jared passes out candy to the little kids at first, but then Zoe takes over because he gets too many questions about what he’s supposed to be. The rest of them sit on the sofa and flick through the horror movie section on Netflix, trying to find something scary enough to be Halloween-y, but not scary enough that Zoe and Evan, self-proclaimed horror movie scaredy-cats, will still watch it. It seems that this balance is an impossible one to find, because it’s been quite a while and they haven’t watched anything yet. 

Evan is really self-conscious about his costume—he keeps fiddling with his cape and readjusting his hat—but Connor thinks he’s the only one that notices. He looks really good, and Connor hasn’t found the right moment or way to tell him that, and—whatever. Evan does reach out and touch Connor’s halo during Alana and Jared’s passionate debate about _American Psycho_ and say, very quietly, “I think I picked the right costume for you?” without stuttering at all. And that just pretty much shuts Connor’s brain off for the next fifteen minutes, because he doesn’t seem to be able to formulate a reply, and he can _feel_ himself blushing, and it seriously—it’s _whatever_. 

The second he regains his power of speech, he asks Evan if it’s ok if he goes and smokes in the backyard for a second. 

“Cigarettes,” he clarifies when Evan’s eyes go wide. “I didn’t bring weed here, oh my god.”

Evan pulls a face. “I just—yeah, you can go. Just—sorry, you know, just not inside?”

“Got it.”

“I’ll go too,” Jared says, jumping to his feet. 

“There’s no way you smoke,” Connor says flatly. “I’m sorry, _no_ way.”

“I just want some fresh air, fuck you,” Jared shoots back. “And a break from Alana’s terrible opinions about one of the greatest films of all time.”

“It’s not a good movie,” Alana says, and Jared throws up both his hands and follows Connor to the backyard. 

Connor lights up, inhales. He feels a little self-conscious with Jared there; he knows it’s a bad habit and he doesn’t like when people watch him do it.

It’s not until Connor is halfway through the cigarette that Jared finally pipes up—perhaps the longest period of time that he’s ever managed to be silent in his life. 

“Hey, Murphy—question.”

“What.”

“Why don’t you like me?”

Connor drops his cigarette, swears, picks it back up again, and turns to stare at him. “ _What_?”

“I mean—you don’t, do you? I don’t get it.” Jared’s voice is remarkably level, but there’s a layer of vulnerability to it that Connor hasn’t heard before. “Like—I don’t have anything against you, man. I don’t know what’s up.”

“You’re a dick, that’s what’s up,” Connor says irritably. “You treat Evan like shit, you’re obnoxious as hell, and you’ve been shitty to me. So.”

Jared opens his mouth, and then closes it. Then frowns. “When have I been shitty to you?”

“First day of school,” Connor says instantly. “You said I looked like a school shooter. Like, I was minding my own fucking business and you busted out your idiotic jokes because I was an easy target or some shit. You called me a freak in front of everyone.”

Jared blows out a long breath. “Okay,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s it?”

“Shit, Murphy, what else do you want? It’s already been done. It’s not like I killed someone. I said something stupid. I crossed a line.”

“You’re pretty fucking bad at this whole apology thing,” Connor says after a long pause. 

“Yeah, I know.” He scowls, adjusts his glasses, drums out an irregular rhythm with his shoe on the ground. “Look, I know I can be a dick. I’m trying not to be. It’s just—being a dick is easier than not being one because then at least I _know_ why people don’t like me. Or like—whatever, I didn’t really mean that, that’s stupid. It’s just how I'm used to being. Listen, at least I’m trying.” He gestures back at the house. “I just don’t want to mess up the group dynamic, okay? They’re all important to me. That’s why I’m trying. You’re kind of an ass too—I think you can get that.”

Connor is pissed off to find that he does, indeed, get it. “Yeah.”

“Especially with Evan—cause you’re right, I treat him like shit sometimes, because—you don’t need the details. I guess I’m just asking you to give me a chance, here. Because it feels like you’ve been prejudiced against me up until now, and I just want a chance to really—” Jared’s voice cracks, and he shoves his glasses further up his nose like that will somehow help. “To, like, really have a good group of friends, you know? I want that.”

“I thought you have other friends,” Connor says, a little coldly, and then regrets it. 

“Yeah,” Jared says, “yeah, I do.”

It’s a pathetic lie at best, completely unbelievable at worst.

“Okay,” Connor says. “Whatever. If you’re trying not to be a dick, I can too. We’re on truce. But only if I see that you’re treating Evan better for real.”

“You’d eat his ass in a heartbeat, we get it,” Jared says, rolling his eyes. Then he swipes at them under his glasses, and Connor pretends to look the other way. 

“Fuck you.”

Connor finishes off his cigarette and lights another one. It’s silent for a bit, and then Jared says, “Hey, now that we’re not being all serious and shit: the real reason I came out here is to see how stupid you’d look smoking in that angel costume.”

“And?”

“You look pretty fucking stupid.”

Connor gives him the finger. 

When they go back inside, Jared picks right back up where he’d left off with Alana about _American Psycho_ , and Connor sits back down next to Evan. But there’s a sort of understanding between them—when their eyes meet across the room, Jared nods at him in a friendly kind of way—and Connor thinks he can live with that. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks! jared is Bad at apologizing but he's doing his best just like the rest of them. also, healthy Murphy sibling communication is healthy. let's hear it for talking about ur feelings. 
> 
> -if you would like to know if the next update will be on time, I will probably keep u guys updated on my [Tumblr](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com)  
> -speaking of Tumblr, consider giving [this post](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is) a lil rebagel  
> -that moment when jared says "abSOLUTELY NOT" in sincerely me??? smash that kudos button if u agree  
> -perhaps take a moment to leave a comment? it Fuels me. it makes me STRONGER,   
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	11. Interlude (Jared)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello!!! I'm here, I'm queer, and I'm ready to finally update this fic again. I know it's been a bit longer than usual, but thank u for being patient and wonderful about it. I haven't replied to ao3 comments from last week, but since I figured y'all would rather have an update than replies I've been channeling all of my spare time/energy into writing the actual update. I have, however, read the comments, and I love u all for them. updates will continue to be a bit sporadic, but I'm working as hard as I can in between college stuff! be patient with me :D
> 
> this interlude goes to jared!!! finally!!!! I've been excited about writing his interlude for so long lol. let's hear what he has to say.

**EvanHansen:** Thanks guys :( I don’t want to be lame about it, but I would just be really nervous the whole time if you brought it. Sorry!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** we want you to have a good time! I'm glad you told us so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable with it :D

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** fine whatever floats ur boat acorn

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** hey u know what can we skype real quick? 

**EvanHansen:** Yeah! Give me one second

Jared drops his phone onto his bed and reaches over to open his laptop, pulling up Skype and staring at his last few conversations. He’s only kept in touch with a few people from camp; mainly everyone has been too busy to message or call. It’s like that every summer, though—he goes to camp, makes friends with people who think he’s hilarious, they have a great time, and then they go their separate ways at the end of the summer. And then they don’t really talk again. And then Jared has to go through another whole school year of pretending that he has friends who aren’t Evan Hansen. 

The thing about Evan is that he’s really nice. And Jared likes him. But Jared is still holding out for a real social life, and the thing is—it’s not really possible to have a social life when you hang out with someone like Evan. Hang out with someone like Evan, and you get put into a box with all the other social outcasts, and then no one will talk to you at all, even when you try and force them to. 

But all of that had changed when Jared, after a few minutes of getting shut out of every group of people he’d tried to sit with, had spotted Evan sitting with a bunch of weirdos across the cafeteria. And he’d thought _maybe they’ll take me_. So he’d marched over, slapped his lunch tray down and said, “‘Sup, losers.” And they hadn’t shut him out. 

And now he has friends. 

The great thing about having friends is that if you’re a social outcast, one of the weirdos, and you’re in a group with other social outcasts and weirdos, you don’t have to feel bad about it. It becomes your thing. And you stop worrying about what other people think about you being a weirdo, or whether they know you have friends, because it doesn’t matter any more. _You_ know you have friends, and they’re just as weird as you are, and you’re okay with that. 

Jared doesn’t care quite so much about fitting in anymore, and he doesn’t want to have _family_ friends when he can have _friends_. And he doesn’t know how to tell Evan that, but he has to try. 

Which brings them back to tonight. The Skype screen pings— _EvanHansen is calling_ —and Jared accepts the call. 

“Hi!” Evan says. “Is your mom there?”

“What? No.”

“Oh, I thought—sorry, I thought you maybe wanted me to say hi to her? Sorry, for the c-car insurance thing, so she knows we’re talking, and—yeah.”

Jared winces. “Yeah. No, she’s not here.” Evan looks confused and opens his mouth, and Jared hastens to continue before he can say anything. “Look, that’s what I actually wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh,” Evan says, his face instantly dropping. “Oh, sure.”

“So—like, I got a job.”

“That’s—um, that’s nice?”

“Shut up, Hansen, I’m not done yet. I got a job, and I’m gonna be paying for my own car insurance from now on. My parents decided that was probably the best use of my money, you know?”

“Sure,” Evan says again. “So you’re not going to—”

“I got it two weeks ago,” Jared says loudly. “I got the job two weeks ago, Evan.”

There’s a long silence. Jared can practically see Evan running through all of the worst possibilities in that anxious brain of his. 

“But you’ve been talking to me these past two weeks?” Evan says finally. Hopefully. Jared feels like shit. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ve still been talking to you for the past two weeks.”

There’s another silence, and then: “Oh,” Evan says. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah. Like—it’s whatever. I mean, why wouldn’t we still be talking? I mean, we’re like—we’re friends.”

“Family friends.”

“Nah, we’re _friends_.” Jared wants to say more, wants to apologize for treating Evan like shit the past few years, but he doesn’t really know how. Doesn’t really know if he can. So he changes the subject before Evan can ask any questions. “Hey, on the topic of friends—it’s pretty sweet we’re tight with Zoe Murphy now, huh? Are you planning on making a move soon?”

Evan pauses, and then shakes his head. He looks a little uncertain. 

“Don’t tell me—”

“I’m not really into her anymore?” Evan interrupts. “Sorry—just—you know, she’s really nice, and I’m really happy we’re friends, but—it just—it’s not the same. Actually knowing her, you know?”

“Damn,” Jared says. “I didn’t see that coming. You’re really not crushing on her anymore?”

“Yeah—I mean, no. It’s just—you know. Everything’s different now.”

“It sure is.” Jared feels his voice shake a little on the last word, but Evan doesn’t mention it, which is pretty fucking decent of him. “Hey, I’m pretty pumped for this Halloween thing.”

“Me too,” Evan says. “It’ll be nice to have everyone over?”

“Yeah.” Jared glances at the time, and cringes. “My mom’ll be home soon, and I haven’t gotten dinner started yet like I was supposed to—we can talk later?”

“Sure,” Evan says. “Hey—um, congrats on the job?”

Jared grins, and Evan grins back. “Thanks, Hansen. Hey, I’ve probably already told you this so it’s not a big deal or whatever, but—you’re kinda cool, you know that?”

Evan look a little startled, but then the smile returns to his face. “Oh,” he says. “I’m not really, but—thanks. You too.”

“Yeah, whatever. See you tomorrow, Hansen.”

Jared ends the call. 

Having real friends—friends he doesn’t just see over the summer—friends who think he’s funny and cool and forgive him when he’s an ass—that’s something new. Jared kind of likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor kid. at least he's trying.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a) shorter than the last couple updates bc of how tight my schedule is b) rather poorly edited for the same reason (pls tell me if u catch any typos) and c) extremely nerve-wracking for me to put out there in the world bc this chapter contains one of the scenes I thought up when I first got the idea for this fic and I really hope I did it justice. so yeah this chapter is a fun time??

Fridays are therapy days; Cynthia usually comes and picks Connor up from school so they can get to the appointment on time. It makes the school week just that much worse; instead of getting to go home at the end of the school day and have the weekend to look forward, he spends an hour of his Friday afternoons stuck in Dr. Lee’s office trying to choke back the fact that he wishes he were dead. 

Maybe not that last part. Not so much, not anymore. He doesn’t wish he were dead all the time anymore. That’s something. But he still has the pills, a little stash of _just in case_ —

He’s not better yet. Having a stash of pills just in case things get bad again isn’t _good_. But he doesn’t think about them all the time so maybe that means he’s getting _better_.

After therapy, he and Cynthia usually drive home in silence—she cries a lot of the time because he never wants to talk about the session—and then he goes up to his room and lays on his bed and doesn’t move for the next few hours because even trying to talk to Dr. Lee takes every single emotion out of him and leaves him numb. Except. Except that lately he’ll go over to Evan’s and maybe bring food and they’ll sit together in silence while Evan works on his essays. Or he’ll text Zoe and she’ll come out out of her room and sit at his desk and tell him about all the jazz band gossip while he stares at the ceiling.

So. Things aren’t so bad anymore. 

Today, Cynthia asks him if he wants to go get coffee after therapy—which is a first—and he agrees, mainly because Zoe is out with Alana today, and Evan is going to the movies with Heidi to see a documentary about global warming. And he doesn’t want to go stare at his bedroom ceiling and slip into the cold numbness he can feel hovering in tieback of his brain, just one too many moments alone away. So they go get coffee at a Starbucks not too far from Dr. Lee’s office. 

Cynthia tells him to go find a place to sit—it’s bustling even though it’s fairly late in the day—and goes up to order without even asking him what he wants. He resents that only slightly, mainly because it means she thinks she knows him well enough to know what he’d want, and he’s fairly sure she really doesn’t. 

The line is long; Connor takes out his phone while he waits for her so it looks like he has something to do, and sends Evan a text asking him if the movie was any good even though Connor knows it’s probably not over yet. 

“Here you go, Con,” Cynthia says, startling him a little. “I got you hot chocolate—you’re not supposed to have caffeine with your new meds, right?”

He stares at her. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have caffeine with the first set of pills—a rule he flagrantly disregarded, which probably wasn’t a great idea—but this medication is fine with caffeine. “No, that was the other pills,” he says after a second. “The ones I was on in September?”

“Oh. Well, you like hot chocolate anyway, right?”

“Right.” He takes a sip. Maybe it’s better not to have caffeine after all; he’s in kind of a weird headspace right now. He’s dying for a cigarette, though. 

“How did the session go?”

“It went fine. I—yeah. Fine.” He’d told Dr. Lee about trying to fix things with Zoe, and about making friends. About trying to spend more time with other people so he’s not so stuck in his own head. Dr. Lee had said that he’s been showing more improvement lately than in the past year she’s been seeing him. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. “I, you know. I’ve been okay lately.”

“You don’t feel like you—” She stops and purses her lips together. He only knows what she’s talking about because she abruptly can’t look at him. 

She’d been the one to find him. They never talked about that. None of them have really talked about that day, together, all at once, without shying away from saying what really happened. 

“No,” he says. “I haven’t been feeling like that.” He doesn’t know if that’s the truth or not, but he knows he wants it to be. He doesn’t want to be feeling like that anymore. 

She just accepts that. They drink in silence for a bit, and then she says, “Con, I don’t want to put pressure on you about this, but—we really need to talk about what you’re planning to do for college.”

Connor tightens his hand around his hot chocolate. “Mom.”

“Sweetie, I know there’s a lot of other things going on, but we really need to talk about your future. It’s already November, and the application deadlines are in January. Have you started?”

He has not, in fact, started his applications. A good portion of this is due to the fact that he hadn’t been planning to live this long. There’s no point in working on a future you won’t even have. 

“No,” he says. 

“Do you know where you want to apply?”

“No.”

“Connor—”

“I don’t know if I’ll get in anywhere,” he says flatly. “My grades are shit. I don’t have any extracurriculars. I went to rehab in the middle of high school, Mom. I’m not exactly a promising candidate.”

She exhales, long and slow, and then closes her eyes. “Connor. Your father and I really want you to go to college.”

“That’s nice,” he says. “I’m telling you it’s not really realistic.”

“Can you at least start looking at a few schools?” she says. “One school? Just look at the requirements. Maybe start an essay. You have to start thinking about this sometime, Connor.”

“ _Mom_.”

“What are you going to do when you graduate if you don’t go to college?”

“I don’t know,” he says irritably. “Get a job? I don’t know.”

“One school,” she says. “That’s all, just one school. Can you do that?”

“Fine.” He takes a long drink of his hot chocolate so he doesn’t have to look at her. The thought of having to build a future on the very shaky foundation he has right now is terrifying. Not that he’d ever tell her that, but—he’d spent so long assuming that he’d be dead before he graduated that he never bothered to put any provisions in place for a scenario where he lived. 

Maybe that’s how he knows he’s getting better. He’s sometimes surprised by how much he didn’t care back then. He cares a little now, at least. He cares enough to be terrified. 

“I’m glad you’ve made some friends,” Cynthia finally says. He can tell she’s searching for a topic that won’t set him off. “It’d be nice to meet some of them. That girl that you and Zoe know? Alana? She’s been around a few times. Maybe you could bring the rest of your friends, too.”

Connor has a sudden vision of Jared meeting Larry, and the resulting chaos that would ensue. He doesn’t know if that would be the best or the worst thing ever. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. 

“Think about it,” she says, and they finish their drinks in silence. 

***

The thing about trying to get better is that to the outside world, it looks exactly the same as wanting to die. It doesn’t matter if Connor is telling himself _I won’t have to deal with this tomorrow, I'll be dead by then_ , or _you just have to get through one more hour and then you can go to Evan’s and everything will be okay again_ —to the people at school he’s still the same person. He’s still the psycho freak that everyone eyes nervously because they think he has a revolver in his book bag. They didn’t care when he wanted to kill himself, and they don’t care now when he’s trying very hard not to. And Connor’s okay with that, he really is—he doesn’t care what they think, he doesn’t want them to know anything about him, but—sometimes, someone will say something. And it’ll feel like he’s right back in that hole again, walking around with white noise in his head and his fingers clenched on the strap of his bag so he doesn’t punch something.

He really tries not to let it bother him. He doesn’t care that they don’t care. But he hates being reminded that that dark place is only one bad episode, one bad day away. 

Today he’s having a bad day already; he’d woken up with a horrible weight in his chest, and Larry had been snappish at breakfast, resulting in a minor squabble. He’s kind of just been drifting through his classes, not talking much—when the teacher asks him a question in English, he just stares at her without replying for so long that she gives up and moves on to someone else—and he sits in the bathroom for most of lunch because he doesn’t feel like talking. Evan texts him asking if he’s okay, and Connor just texts back **bad day.**  

Evan sends him a fist emoji and then leaves him alone, which he appreciates. 

It’s not until he’s in French class that things get really bad; he sits in the back and doesn’t talk much because he isn’t very good at actually speaking French, so he usually doesn’t interact much with people in the class. But today is not his lucky day. 

When they have free time at the end of class, he slumps down in his seat, pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and puts his head on his desk. He wants today to be over. He wants to go to sleep and wake up feeling better. He wants to go to Evan’s house and sit in silence, just the two of them. He _knows_ it’s just a bad day, he _knows_ it’ll be over soon, but first he has to live through it and he doesn’t want to have to do that. He’s so fucking tired. 

“Hey, _freak_ , I was talking to you.” 

Connor feels his fists curl up. The _freak_ hits him somewhere deep in his chest, where he’s too tired not to let it hurt. He wants this day to be over. He wants everything to be quiet. 

He raises his head. It’s that dickhole Mike from student council. 

“What,” Connor says, “do you want.”

“I was asking you a question, fuckface,” Mike says, rolling his eyes. “I was asking if you were high in English because you were acting like a real psycho.”

Connor just stares at him. Maybe he’ll shut up. 

“Well? Were you?”

“Literally go fucking die,” Connor says. “What’s it to you?”

“Because I want to know where you get the good stuff—I’m having a party this weekend. And that’s all you’re good for, right? Acting like a weirdo in class and selling pot, right?”

And Connor just—wishes he could get angry at that. But he can’t. He’s all frozen up inside. He can’t see straight. _That’s all you’re good for._

“Hey, Mike,” someone says loudly. “Maybe stop begging Murphy for a hit of his joint long enough to learn some words longer than your dick—if you weren’t such a total Neanderthal, maybe you’d know that Josh Manefort is the dealer to go to. Your legendary parties must not be so legendary if you don’t even know _that_.”

Connor and Mike both turn their heads to see Jared leaning over to give them both a massive, shit-eating grin. 

Something unclenches in Connor’s chest. 

“What the hell, Kleinman,” Mike says angrily. “I didn’t fucking ask your opinion.”

“Dude, _someone_ has to stop you from embarrassing yourself,” Jared says in a mock-serious voice that’s belied by his expression. “Seriously, leave Murphy alone or I'll tell Dana Goodman it isn’t _really_ nine inches.” He winks and drops into the seat next to Connor. 

“Well, damn, I didn’t know you two were fucking,” Mike says, acid in his voice. “I’ll leave the happy couple alone, then. Fags.”

“Ooh,” Jared says. “No, but he wishes. Scurry on back to your minions, then.”

Mike flips them off and turns his back on them. The smile drops off Jared’s face and he slumps back in his seat. There’s a vein visibly pulsing in his neck. 

“That was fucking stupid of me,” he says, half under his breath. 

Connor still doesn’t know Jared that well, but he knows him well enough to know that hashing it out with one of the school’s most popular guys in front of the whole class is probably his worst nightmare. Jared has a pathological need to fit in, to be viewed as someone with social standing. 

“Yeah, it kind of was,” Connor says. His insides aren’t so cold anymore. He’s not back in that dark place. 

Jared huffs out a half-hearted laugh. “Now that I’ve pissed him off I’ve probably ruined my chances of having any kind of reputation in this school.”

“Yeah, you’re never gonna be prom king now,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. “The heart bleeds, Kleinman.”

“One less thing to worry about,” Jared says. “I’ll have some breathing room in my packed social schedule now, thank god.”

There’s a pause, and then Connor says, “Thanks.”

Jared glances at him, and then nods. “Yeah, whatever. Gotta have someone watching your back on the bad days, right?”

“Right,” Connor says. 

He goes to Evan’s after school, and Evan tells him about the documentary he’d seen on Friday, and Connor lies on the floor and listens to him. So this was a bad day. It might even be a bad week. But it’ll pass. The bad days will pass. 

***

**AlanaBeck:** Hi guys!! Is everyone able to respond/pay attention right now?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** this is a groupcht not a fckin roll call????

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** but yea

**EvanHansen:** Yeah, I can talk! What’s up?

**FuckKik:** yea whatever i’m here

**AlanaBeck:** Okay, there’s something Zoe and I want to tell you!

**FuckKik:** oh

**FuckKik:** if i already know what this is do i have to pay attention?

**ZoeLovesJazz:** hey Connor! Maybe try not being a dick about this :)

**FuckKik:** how was that being a dick

**AlanaBeck:** ANYWAY

**AlanaBeck:** Zoe and I have decided that we’re going to start dating. 

**ZoeLovesJazz:** yea we’re girlfriends now

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** NO W A Y 

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** OH MY GOD

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING???? ZOE I THOUGH U WERE A STRAIGHT

**ZoeLovesJazz:** well clearly you were wrong

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** gay??? Bi????pan???? What kind of gay r u I must know

**FuckKik:** literally thats none of ur fuckin business jared shut up

**ZoeLovesJazz:** it’s ok

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I’m actually not sure yet! I’m still figuring things out, I just know that I really like Alana and we’re really happy together!!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** also I'm not out to anyone else, including my parents, so if you guys could not mention this to anyone that would be cool

**AlanaBeck:** ^^^^

**AlanaBeck:** We do want to be a public couple at school eventually, but only when Zoe has everything figured out and is comfortable with being out. We just thought you three should know because it does kind of impact group dynamics!

**EvanHansen:** Congrats guys!!! I’m really happy for you two!!!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** yea what he said

**FuckKik:** i guess u two already have my blessing or whatever

**AlanaBeck:** Thanks guys!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** yeah thanks for being so supportive! It really means a lot :))

**ZoeLovesJazz:** also @ Connor “your blessing” lmao ok

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** think of all the gr8 ship names u two could have!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** Zolana. Aloe. A-Z.

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** WAIT how long has this been going on????

**FuckKik:** how bout u stop being so fucking nosy for a change Kleinman 

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** what crawled up ur ass n died murphy

**FuckKik:** ur dick

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** U W I S H 

**AlanaBeck:** Okay, conversation closed! Thanks for your support everyone. 

**ZoeLovesJazz:** especially evan bc he’s the only one that’s not being problematic

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** can't believe ur picking favorites. 

**FuckKik:** evan is everyone’s favorite, it doesn’t count

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** miss me w that gay shit

**FuckKik:** you’re literally gay wtf

**AlanaBeck:** OKAY CONVERSATION CLOSED

***

By the time the weekend comes around, Connor is still feeling off. He’s trying to look at it positively—he’s come far enough that what used to be a normal day is now a bad day—but. That’s the thing. It’s hard to be positive on the bad days.

On Saturday, Connor texts Evan first thing in the morning asking if he can come over and spend the day at his house. He’s gone from very numb to very pissed off, and he can _feel_ the anger just waiting under the surface, ready to spring out at any second. And he’d rather not have that happen, but he also knows that there’s probably no way to stop it from happening if he spends the whole day with his family. 

Evan doesn’t reply, so Connor suffers through a family breakfast. Everything everyone says grates on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He literally has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from lashing out at one point; blood oozes out, sharp and copper-bright. His mind is full of hurtful things to say, and he doesn’t want them to be there. 

He texts Evan again, and gets nothing in response. 

“You okay?” Zoe says when they’re washing up after breakfast. 

“Fuck off,” he says, prompting a _language_ from Larry, and an eye roll from Zoe. 

“A bad day does not equal the right to be a dick,” she says. 

“ _Language_ ,” Larry says again, and Connor’s knuckles tighten on the washcloth. 

Zoe doesn’t ask him about again, and she jumps when he slams down a dish a little too loudly. He doesn’t want to be like this. He doesn’t know how not to be like this. He doesn’t know how to ask them to help him. 

**hey hansen. u at home? i’m coming over. can’t hang around my house right now.**

Still no reply, but Connor grabs his jacket, tells Cynthia where he’s going, and heads out anyway. 

Evan’s neighborhood is louder than his is; there are more people walking dogs and jogging out on the sidewalk, chilly and early as it is, and you can hear the sounds of pots and pans and conversation leaking out through open windows and screen doors. Maybe if he'd been a different kind of headspace, the peripheral noise would have helped ground him, but as it is, it just makes Connor jumpy and irritable. He thinks all the joggers are looking at him. He knows they’re not. 

It’s just a bad day, he thinks. It doesn’t mean anything. 

When he gets to Evan’s house, he rings the doorbell and huddles into his jacket, waiting. The November wind is getting brisk; he should have brought something thicker than a hoodie. 

The door opens, and Evan is standing there, puzzled and rumpled looking, clad in a pair of cloud-patterned pajama pants and a t shirt that says SAVE THE BEES. The sight of him sends a surge of something weird and unfamiliar through Connor’s stomach. 

“Connor?” he says. He sounds like he just woke up, but maybe that’s Connor’s imagination. “I—hi?”

“I texted you,” Connor says a little desperately. “You didn’t answer, I—I can’t be in my house right now, I—” He makes a vague, all-encompassing gesture. 

“Did something happen?” Evan asks, his voice sharpening and his stutter receding just a little bit, just enough to make that weird thing happen in Connor’s stomach again because _he cares._

“No,” Connor says. “No—but I didn’t want something to happen, either. I just can’t be around them right now.”

“Okay,” Evan says. “Okay. Um. Come on inside? Sorry, I should have—you look cold.”

Connor steps inside, and Evan shuts the door after him. “Is your mom home?”

“No, she, um, she left early this morning,” Evan says. There’s a note of something Connor can’t name in his voice. Disappointment, maybe. “I’ve been up since then—just. You know. Hey—I'm sorry I didn't answer your texts? I wasn’t looking at my, my phone. It just—” He makes a vague gesture of his own. “Sometimes it’s a lot to deal with? That sounds stupid, sorry, just—”

“You’re having a bad day too,” Connor interrupts. “If you don’t want me here—”

“No, stay,” Evan says immediately. “I’m, um, I’m kind of driving myself insane here by myself? It just gets. Loud.” He cringes and gestures towards his head. “You want to come upstairs?”

“Yeah, sure.”

They walk upstairs in silence. Connor’s chest is heavy; the skin on his arms is too tight, begging to be split open— _too deep, too deep, blood everywhere, sickness rising in his throat_ —he slams the lid of that box shut in his brain. He doesn’t need those thoughts right now. 

Evan flops down on his bed; Connor follows suit on the desk chair. There’s a stack of print-outs on the desk, pages and pages of writing that have been printed out and then corrected in red pen. It’s Evan’s own handwriting; they don’t look like school assignments. 

“Scholarship essays?” Connor asks, pointing to them. 

Evan winces. “And therapy letters. Sorry. Only a few of those—just some of them need editing—yeah. Mainly the essays?”

Connor searches for sympathy in his chest and is horrified to find that he can’t find it; everything’s been eaten up by this horrible urge to lash out. He decides on not saying anything. 

“Sorry,” Evan says again, and then falls silent. 

They sit there for a long time, not looking at each other. Evan is fidgeting with his bedspread; his face is set in an expression of uncomfortable unhappiness. 

“I hate this,” Connor says finally.

“Me too.” He smooths out the bedspread. “There’s a draft of an essay on the desk somewhere there? Sorry—it’s called Overcoming Challenges in Life. Sorry, it’s, um, it’s kind of lame, that was one of the prompts? I—just, could you pass it to me? I just really need to be working on these, or—yeah.”

“Yeah, lemme look.” Connor sifts through the stack; some of the papers are so crumpled that he can hardly read the words. One has been twisted into a ball—when he straightens it out, it has no red pen on it at all, and—

_Dear Evan Hansen,_

_Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year, because why would it be?_  
And Connor’s insides go cold, and he knows he shouldn’t be reading this, because this was the letter that Evan snatched away from him on the first day of school, and, and, and—he’d never gotten to read that second sentence. 

_I know, because there’s Zoe, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don't even know, and who doesn’t know me. Maybe if I could just talk to her. Maybe nothing would be different at all. I wish everything was different._

Connor feels his fingers tighten on the paper, because it was _Zoe_ , of course it was Zoe all along—but that’s stupid, he knows Evan’s his friend, he wouldn’t be sitting here if he wasn’t, and, and, and—

_I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said—_

“Connor? Is that it?”

Connor looks up, and Evan is looking at him with steady brown eyes, really _looking_ at him, and Connor has never been really looked at before. 

People don’t really see him. 

“No,” he says. His voice is shaking, even he can hear it. “No, this isn’t—I think this is—I shouldn’t be—here.” He shoves the paper at Evan and sits back. He can feel fury buzzing in his bones and he doesn’t want it there. He doesn’t want to be angry about this, about Evan and Zoe and anything that might have happened there. He doesn’t want to be angry at _Evan_ , of all people. 

“I—oh.” Evan looks slightly sick. “I, you—how much did you—?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says. “Enough.”

“Enough?”

“Enough to—I don’t fucking know, you and Zoe or whatever. I read that.”

Evan goes bright red. “ _Oh_.”

“I just—you and her—I don’t fucking know, Evan, it’s whatever, it’s—she’s dating Alana now, you know that? She’s not—”

“I know, I know, I knowiknowiknow—”

“It’s just—did you—” Connor swallows, hard. The walls of Evan’s bedroom feel like they’re closing in. “Did you. Start talking to me. Because of her.”

“I started talking to you—no, I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I—are you, are you mad at me, or—I'm sorry—”

“No, I’m not mad, I—” Connor stands up, swiftly enough that Evan jumps a little, and crosses over to the other side of the bedroom. He’s shaking, he can feel it; he wishes he had something to hold on to. “I don’t want to be mad, I don’t want—I don’t know how not to be. I’m trying not to be mad. I know I shouldn’t be mad. It’s just—it’s so hard.” He knows he’s not making sense, but Evan is relaxing a little. Relaxing. When Connor is spiraling out of control, trying not to punch something. Trying to breathe. Evan’s relaxing. “I can’t—”

“Hey,” Evan says, very softly. “Hey, Connor, it’s okay, it’ll pass—take a deep breath—I know it’s—”

“ _You don’t know_ ,” Connor says explosively, and Evan flinches, he sees Evan _flinch_. “You don’t fucking know—you’re not in my head, I get that we’re both sick or whatever, we’re both fucking freaks, but you don’t know what it’s like. I can’t fucking control this, on the bad days I can’t fucking breathe, I—taking deep fucking breaths is not going to _work_ —you don’t get it, okay? Stop acting like you do.”

Evan has gone pale. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Connor like he’s seeing him for the first time. Connor feels sick. 

“You’ve never been in my head, you’ve never—” He has to swallow hard again, his throat feels awful “—you’ve never sat there for fucking hours on end staring at your ceiling wishing you were dead—you don’t know what that’s like, to try and kill yourself and then have everyone to expect you recover just like that—like you’ll never try something like that again, you don’t get what it’s like to wake up in the hospital and realize they stitched your wrists back together and you have to keep on living and all you can think about is how to try again—and people think you can just get better like that, they want you to try and recover, and they never—”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Evan interrupts suddenly. He stands up, crosses the room until he’s standing in front of Connor. His chest is heaving. “I’ve never sat here in this room wishing I was d-dead—never thought the world would be better off without me because I’m such a burden on my mom, because I can never do anything right, because I'm a useless freak that can’t get a job or stand up in front of the class without panicking. I’ve never gone to my internship and asked around where the tallest trees in the park were. I’ve never gone home and looked up what’s the minimum height you need to jump from to kill yourself. I’ve never climbed the tallest tree in the park and then—then—broken my arm and had to wear the cast around and tell everyone I fell, when—when I didn’t fall, I didn’t fall, I didn’t fall—”

And then he falls silent and turns away so Connor can’t see his face but his shoulders are shaking and Connor is paralyzed with horror, and—

And then he’s running out of the room and downstairs and out the door, and then he’s sitting on the Hansens’ front porch, and he’s shaking and he can’t think straight, and all he can think is _I didn’t fall I didn’t fall I didn’t fall_. 

He thinks he’s going to be sick. And then he is, violently, in the bushes by the porch. He’s sure the neighbors are looking. He doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t know how long passes between that and the moment where he can draw in a real breath again, but it could have been a minute or an hour. 

He shouldn’t have run out like that. 

When Connor tests the doorknob of the front door, it’s still unlocked; he opens it and, after checking in the living room, goes upstairs. His knees feel like water. 

Evan is still in his bedroom, still has his back to the door. His shoulders are trembling. 

“Evan,” Connor says. He doesn’t have the energy to get anything but that out. His voice is hoarse; his mouth feels disgusting after throwing up. 

Evan turns around. His face is red; his eyes are swollen. He hastily wipes the end of his sleeve over his face like that will somehow conceal the fact that he’d been crying. “I thought—I t-thought you left.”

“I came back,” Connor says. 

Evan shivers, wraps his arms around himself, sniffs loudly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be, I was the one—”

“Did you really try to—”

Connor shudders. “Yeah. I—” He holds out a hoodie-covered wrist, draws a finger across it. Even the sensation of his skin through the cloth makes his skin crawl.

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, I don’t think—it was over break, so I wasn’t gone from school for that long. I don’t think people noticed.” His mouth is dry. “Did you really—did you fall, or. Did you let go?”Evan tries to smile; the result is that painful spasm of a half-smile that he’d given Connor that first day of school. “I—I let—l-let go.” Another sob forces its way out of him and he turns his head away again. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

“I didn’t know either.”

“No one knows,” Evan says miserably. “I told everyone I f-fell.”

“Not even your therapist?”

“Did you tell yours that you still think about—”

“I—don’t really. That much. Anymore. The first day of school, I was going to—”

Evan’s eyes go wide. “Connor, that’s—”

“Not that long after you tried,” Connor says fiercely. “And I didn’t try, okay? I didn’t.”

There’s a long silence. 

“I’m glad,” Evan whispers. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“You told me to stay safe,” Connor says. “That first day. After we talked in the computer lab. You didn’t even know me, and you said stay safe.”

Evan doesn’t say anything to response, and after a minute, Connor realizes that this is because he’s crying. Connor thinks he might cry too. 

“You need to tell your therapist,” Connor says finally. His voice is all choked up. “Evan, you can’t just—it doesn’t go away on its own, trust me, I know. I can’t be the only one that knows. If something happens—you need to tell your therapist.”

“Okay,” Evan mumbles. “I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her. But I don’t feel—I don’t feel like that anymore? I don’t.”

“It comes back,” Connor says heavily. “Just—promise me you’ll tell her.”

“I have an appointment tomorrow.”

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Evan says. “But only if you tell yours about almost trying to—you know. At the beginning of school. If you haven’t already.”

“I’ll tell her,” Connor says. “I haven’t, but—I will.”

And he will. He’ll close that _just in case_ door. It’s about time he did. 

“Can we go downstairs?” Evan asks after a moment. “I—sorry, I can’t breathe in here.”

They go downstairs, and Evan gives Connor a glass of water when he says he threw up on the porch. 

“In the bushes, though,” he hastens to clarify. “Not on the porch. There’s not vomit on your porch.”

“Why did you get sick?” Evan looks genuinely worried, and it makes Connor’s stomach do that weird thing again. 

“Just. Everything. Getting angry and trying not to get angry and yelling at you and—what you said. Just—the thought of you—trying—of you being in that place, it just—I've been there, I’ve felt that and it just—you feeling like that made me so—” Connor shakes his head and drinks the entire glass of water to avoid having to keep talking. 

“Oh,” Evan says quietly. “I’m sorry.” He pauses and then says, “Listen—sorry, about Zoe?”

“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” Connor says. “It really wasn’t about that, it was just the mood I was in—I shouldn’t have come over because I knew I was going to blow up, and I’m sorry I came when—anyway. You don’t need to explain anything to me.”

“Sorry,” Evan says. “I kind of want to? Just—to clear things up? Um. I used to have this really big crush on Zoe, you know, for years, probably. And when I wrote that letter—um, I still felt that way? But then I actually got to know her, and—it just. I realized she was a real person, not this person I had in my head that I was expecting—sorry, I don’t mean that she’s not great, she’s really great, but—it just kind of went away? Because she’s a great friend, and she’s a great person, and I just—it wasn’t the same as before. So. I don’t feel that way anymore.”

“Oh,” Connor says. He feels a weird kind of relief in his chest, and he’s not really sure why. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Evan says. “I just didn’t want you to think that’s why I wanted to be your friend. Just—because you asked. That’s not why I started talking to you.”

Connor takes a deep breath. He’s going to start crying if he’s not careful. Evan is probably the nicest person in the whole world.

“Listen,” he says. “I have a bunch of things I want to apologize for—do you want me to do it now, or later when we’re not so fucked up?”

“ _Later_ —you don’t need to apologize, Connor, I—”

“I want to,” Connor says firmly. “I’m trying to be better about that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” Evan says, and then reaches out, puts both of his hands on Connor’s shoulders, squeezes, lets go. It’s so swift and awkward that for a second Connor isn’t sure what happened, but then—something aches in his chest, and he abruptly realizes how long it’s been since someone has touched him like that. He doesn’t remember the last time someone touched him just _because_ , something that wasn’t a clap on the shoulder or a fist bump—he doesn’t hug people, he doesn’t hold hands. The Murphys aren’t touchy-feely family, haven’t been for a long time; up until very recently, he didn’t have any friends; he’s never properly dated someone. 

And Evan doesn’t usually touch people, doesn’t usually like to be touched. So maybe it’s okay to wish that he had held on for a little longer. 

“Connor—I’m glad you’re still here.”

Connor looks away and blinks, hard. His eyes are burning. “I’m glad you’re here too.”

***

“Where were you?” Zoe says when she sees him coming up the stairs that afternoon. 

“Evan’s,” he says. He doesn’t really feel like talking. 

“Really?” She draws it out, long and teasing: _Reaaaaally?_ “That’s the third time this week.”

“Yeah, whatever, it’s been a bad week.”

“And he gets it,” she says. “When you’re not feeling good.”

“Yeah.”

“You know that you can talk to me, too, right? You don’t have to go over there every time you want to complain to someone. I might not always get it but I can try.”

He looks at her for a second. “Oh,” he says. And then: “Yeah, I know.”

“I just wanted to be sure,” she says. “Also, I think you have a crush on Evan.”

He nearly falls down the stairs. “A _what_ on _who_?”

“ _Whom_ ,” she says with an evil grin. “And you _definitely_ heard what I said.”

“I do not have a crush on Evan,” he snaps. “He—I—there are _so many_ reasons why I don’t have a crush on Evan. You’re making things up.’

“Am I?” she says. “If you say so.” But her face is knowing, which means this isn’t the last he’s going to hear about it. 

He doesn’t have a crush on Evan, though. Because he doesn’t think either of them are in a position to be dating right now, when they have so much going on themselves, and Evan is straight, anyway, and even if he weren’t, he definitely wouldn’t want to date someone like Connor because Evan deserves much better than Connor, as abundantly evidenced today. So yeah. So many reasons. She’s insane to suggest it.   
“Listen,” she says. “Mom and Dad were talking about Thanksgiving today.”

“Oh my god. Please don’t tell me we’re going to have family over, I would die—”

“Dad’s side of the family is going to be out of town, and Mom’s side—well.”

They both wince. Last Thanksgiving, Connor had thrown his plate at the wall in a fit of rage after something someone on Cynthia’s side of the family had said to him. He doesn’t even remember what it was, only that it had made him so angry he had wanted to kill someone. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to look any of them in the eyes again, but it seems that this year, the wound is too fresh to make an appearance here for Thanksgiving, so maybe he won’t have to. 

“Yeah,” Zoe says. “So it’s just going to be us. Which is—you know. Kind of nice.”

“Is it though?”

“If you don’t pick a fight with Dad it will be.”

“ _I_ don’t pick fights with _him_ , _he_ picks fights with _me_.”

“He says the exact same thing about you,” she says. “But anyway. I thought you’d appreciate the heads-up cause you weren’t here when they were talking about it.”

“Yeah, thanks.” There’s a short pause, and then he says, “About Evan.”

She grins. “Go on.”

“I don’t think I would be—you know. Good for him. I kind of blew up at him today for no real reason, and he’s—I don’t know, pretty fragile himself. So. Just don’t get any ideas, because even if I did like him, it wouldn’t be good for either of us to start dating.”

“Hey,” she says. “Just because you’re ill doesn’t mean you can’t date people and be happy. You two really get along. If anyone would understand the—you know, the challenges of dating a mentally ill person, or whatever, it’d be him. But if you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to?”

“There’s nothing to _talk_ about,” he says. “I was just telling you what I _thought_ about it.”

“ _Sure_ ,” she says. “I’ll be practicing guitar in my bedroom if you need me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I have a solo in jazz band.” She hesitates. “The concert’s this weekend? Whatever, not like you care, but—you know. It’s this weekend.”

“I’m not doing anything this weekend.”

“Alana’s coming,” she adds. “So like—it’s not just Mom and Dad.”

“Well. I would hate to be alone with them.”

She beams at him. “Thanks.”

“I haven’t said I’m coming yet?” But he’s smiling, and so is she. 

“Oh, shut up.” She takes a step towards her bedroom. “Anyway. I’ll be practicing. Knock if you need anything.”

He gives her a thumbs up, and then goes into his bedroom and starts typing up a text to Cynthia. 

**can u make me an appointment w dr lee before Friday?**

_Sure, sweetie! Why?_

**just have something i want to talk about w her. It’s not a big deal, don’t worry. just trying to make sure i’m covering all my bases.**

_Okay, I’ll give her a call._

_I’m proud of you for reaching out when you need help, Con._

He scowls at his phone—he doesn’t want people to be _proud_ of him, he’s just going to _disappoint_ them—but he types out **thanks** anyway. 

He hopes that Evan will keep his end of the bargain. 

***

**hey. so I want to say i'm sorry for today**

_You don’t have to. I know you didn’t mean to lash out like that._

**doesn’t matter. i still shouldn’t have done it.**

**so i’m sorry for coming over when I was in the kind of mood where it was inevitable that i would blow up at someone. i shouldn’t have put that on u, to deal with me when i’m angry like that. that’s not ur responsibility. and i’m sorry for yelling at u when u didn’t do anything wrong, and accusing u of not knowing what it feels like to**

**u know.**

_Yeah_. 

**And i’m sorry for running out like that. that was rlly shitty.**

**ok i think that’s it?**

_I forgive you. I've done stupid things when I'm having a bad day too. It’s okay. You didn’t do any lasting harm. One relapse or outburst doesn’t make you a bad person, and it doesn’t mean you’re not getting better. I forgive you._

_I’m sorry for assuming I knew how you felt when you got angry. And for dumping all the stuff about how I broke my arm on you. That wasn’t really fair of me._

**i forgive u too. p sure I dumped all my shit on u first lol.**

_We’re going to get better at this._

**yea. we’re going to be ok.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all folks! there's kind of a Hamilton reference in there somewhere, I'll give u a hug if ur the first person to spot it. 
> 
> -my Tumblr, for info on the schedule for future updates, is [here](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com)  
> -consider a humble reblog of [this post](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is)  
> -that moment in For Forever where ben platt holds The Note TM for three hundred years and you feel his voice reverberate in every inch of ur body?? smash that kudos button if u agree  
> -leave a comment to comfort me during my scary first week of college  
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	13. Interlude (Zoe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends! couple things before we get started: you people are so nice, thank you for the response to the last chapter, and if I haven't responded to your comment yet rest assured I will do so asap. also, I know the update schedule is still kinda fucked up, but I'm working on it. finalLY in very exciting news I GOT TICKETS TO DEH I'M GONNA SEE IT AT THE END OF THE MONTH AND I AM SCREAMMINNGNGG I know this is not, like, fic related news but I am SCMREINAKJNG I am. S CMREINAG. 
> 
> okay. um. so I'm very excited that I have tickets esp because my school has an arts program that allows students to get tickets at a huge discount so I'm not even broke after buying them. so I just wanted to share that. anyway. on with the fic. this interlude goes to Zoe!! lets see what she has to say :D

The backstage of the school auditorium is always packed and sweaty before jazz band concerts; Zoe can feel her hair sticking to her forehead. The lead saxophone, David, is running through scales very loudly not too far from her left ear, and it’s giving her a headache. Not like she hadn’t already had one—Connor had picked a fight with their dad right before they were supposed to leave, something about a failing grade on his latest math test. Consequentially, Larry was in a pissy mood on the drive to the school, and complained about how much work he has to get done before Monday to such an extent that Zoe almost told him that he didn’t have to come if he didn’t want to. But she didn’t, because she knows he didn’t mean it like that. He complains about work when he doesn’t want to complain about Connor. 

Connor, as a result of the fight, had refused to get in the car with them. So. He’s not going to be here. And he hadn’t really _promised_ that he would, but—Zoe’s a little let down. Maybe she’s getting her hopes up too high, too soon. Maybe coming to her band concert when she has a solo is too much to ask. 

So Zoe’s trying very hard not to be resentful. She learned a long time ago to pick her battles when it comes to her family—holding grudges when it comes to little disappointments like this doesn’t do anything but make her miserable.

“You look kinda sick,” Rachel says. Rachel’s the bassist; they sit right next to each other in the rhythm section. “Pre-solo nerves?”

Zoe’s actually more excited than nervous for the solo. She’s always been at her most confident when she’s onstage; there are so many things she can’t control in her life that when it comes to making music—something she has complete and utter control over—she relishes in taking the time to make every note, every chord, every harmony perfect. There’s a lot of ugliness in the world, but she will always be able to make her music as beautiful as it can be. 

“Yeah, I'm pretty nervous,” she says. 

“Hey, you’ll be fine,” Rachel says comfortingly, squeezing her hand. “I’ve heard you run through it at practice—you sound amazing.”

Zoe straightens her spine a little, shoots her a smile. “This is why you’re the best stand partner ever.”

“I’ll boo you once you're done so you don’t get too cocky, though.”

“Okay, no longer the best stand partner ever.”

The band director, Mr. Carden, starts yelling at people to get in their places, so Rachel pats her on the shoulder and turns away to grab her sheet music. Zoe draws in a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and then lets it out. She can do this. 

When they file out onstage and take their places, Zoe takes a minute to scan the audience. She always tries to find Cynthia and Larry if they’re there, but today she’s also looking for Alana, who’d come in a separate car. 

Alana is maybe the best thing about life right now, and Zoe doesn’t say that lightly. Even as Connor has been getting better, the day-to-day life of the Murphy household has stayed embittered, resentful, full of grief. In the middle of all the stagnant misery, Alana is a breath of fresh air, and Zoe hasn’t been able to breathe at all for years. She sits and listens to Zoe practice for hours; she asks Zoe to quiz her on lists of vocab terms she’s studying for her AP classes; she can write entire essays over text about feminist theory. When Zoe had practiced her solo until her fingers bled earlier this week, Alana had slapped BandAids on her hands, dragged her out to get frozen yogurt, and then, as they been picking toppings together, had told her while she knew making the solo sound perfect was important to Zoe, it wasn’t more important than her mental and physical health. And it had meant more coming from Alana than if someone else had said it, because Zoe knows that Alana _gets_ it. 

Mr. Carden is giving a speech at the lip of the stage; Mindy is making eyes at Fareed, and Zoe wishes she could twist around in her seat to see what Carl thinks of that. She’s not sure if they’re still together. She hasn’t been talking to them so much ever since she started sitting with Alana and the others during lunch, and strangely she doesn’t mind. The jazz band people are great, they really are, but sometimes they’re a bit much. It’s not their fault, it’s just that most of them don’t _understand_. And she hadn’t really noticed that until she had people that do.

The first piece goes by smoothly; David nails his solo and the trombones are actually in tune for once. Zoe is finally starting to relax, her headache receding. She can breathe here, under the bright lights, with the drums a little too loud behind her, and the familiar grip of the guitar strings against her fingers. Here, it doesn’t matter so much that Larry had been complaining on the way here, or that Connor had decided not to show up. 

When it’s time for her solo, the lights shift and focus on her, but she’s so wrapped up in the moment that she barely notices. The notes fly easily from her fingertips; it’s like she’s back in her bedroom, breaking down the chord progression for Alana while Alana flips through her bio textbook, looking up with a fond smile and saying _I can’t wait to see you onstage_ —

And then it’s over, and the rest of the band jumps back in, and someone whoops Zoe’s name really loudly from the back of the auditorium, and she almost loses her place in the music, because she knows that voice. 

“I got Alana to pick me up on her way over,” Connor says after the concert when they’re all standing in the lobby together waiting for Cynthia to finish talking to the other PTA moms. “Did you really think I wasn’t coming?”

Zoe shrugs. Her fingers hurt from the guitar strings, but they’re interlaced with Alana’s (subtly, just at the fingertips, hidden behind their backs) so maybe that’s okay. “I’m glad you came,” is all she says, and she’s never meant anything more in her life. 

“I told you I would,” he says. He looks _happy_. Like he’s glad he came too. “Hey—Zo. You really killed it up there.”

“Wasn’t she _great_?” Alana says. “My jaw hit the floor when you did your solo—ask Connor, he was right next to me—you were amazing.”

Zoe grins helplessly at the two of them. “I—you guys.” She’s never felt so lucky in her life. “You guys, just— _thanks_.”

“Oh, don’t get all _emotional_ ,” Alana says firmly, and then belies her own statement by pulling Zoe into a crushing hug. She meets Connor’s eyes over Alana’s shoulder, and Connor smiles at her. 

Having Connor smile at her is a good feeling. She’d forgotten what that felt like. 

“ _Don’t get all emotional_ ,” he mimics when they break apart. “You guys are the worst.”

“Such a party pooper?” Zoe says. “Let us have our moment.”

But he holds up one hand for a high five, and after a second, she slaps her own against it. 

On the way home, the silence that permeates the car once Connor and Larry are both in it is so thick you can almost see it, but Zoe doesn’t care. She smiles out the window the whole way home. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy murphy siblings being happy??? my kinda content.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized this fic has almost 2k hits now???? how fuckin crazy is that????? I feel like I was talking about 1k hits like five seconds ago.....What Happened? I feel Famous.

Connor is sullen and unhappy the week of Thanksgiving; it’s a time of year he always hates. His therapist says that’s normal, to dislike the holiday season—she says that if you’re feeling hopeless or worn out, it can be a trigger to see the rest of the world being happy and grateful over something like Thanksgiving. He doesn’t really like that idea, that someone else’s happiness could make him unhappy, but. He doesn’t like Thanksgiving so maybe she’s right about that. 

Evan, he knows, will be spending Thanksgiving at home; Heidi has to work a certain amount of holidays a year, and Thanksgiving is one of the ones she usually signs up for. Connor and Zoe had both told him he was welcome at the Murphy household—although Connor, knowing that there’ll probably be a big fight during dinner, had been a little hesitant about extending that invitation—but Evan had insisted he’ll be fine home alone. _It’s what I always do for Thanksgiving,_ had been his reasoning, which hadn’t made either of them feel any better about it. 

On Thursday evening, Cynthia acts like she made all the food herself when it’s mostly catering; the only dish she actually made were the sweet potatoes, and when no one congratulates her on this, keeps complaining about how no one is appreciating the fruits of her hard labor. Connor doesn’t even like sweet potatoes; he doesn’t know what she wants him to do about it. Larry, on the other hand, has been coming home earlier this week, meaning that tensions are high. Ever since that fight about the math test grade the day of Zoe’s band concert, things have been precarious—Larry wants to talk about college, and how Connor’s behavior right now is impairing his ability to go to college. Connor doesn’t want to talk about that at all. 

When they all sit down for dinner, it feels like every other dinner they’ve ever had. Cynthia is overly cheery; Zoe is quiet; Larry communicates in brusque sentence fragments. It doesn’t feel like a holiday—most of their holidays recently have ended in disaster like the broken plate last year, though, so maybe that’s for the best. 

After the third time Cynthia has asked someone to pass her a dish of food she doesn’t want in an obvious attempt to break the silence, Zoe blurts out, “Should we all say what we’re grateful for this year? That’s a thing people do for Thanksgiving, right?”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s a great idea,” Cynthia says instantly. 

“Okay, you go first.”

“I’m thankful that all four of us are here to celebrate this lovely meal together,” Cynthia says, and Zoe rolls her eyes very subtly. “I think it’s so nice, just having us here.” They all make incoherent noises of various degrees of assent; Cynthia turns to Connor. “Con, you go next.”

“Me?” Connor says incredulously. 

“Honey—”

“Okay, okay, fine. I’m grateful that . . .” He trails off, prods the food on his plate. It’s not that he has nothing to be grateful for—on the contrary, he has things to be grateful for when he hasn’t in a long time—but there’s nothing that he wants to talk here, now, in front of Cynthia and Larry and their judgmental gazes. “I’m grateful that high school is almost over.”

“You’re not even halfway done with the school year,” Larry says, smelling an opportunity to bring up his grades like a shark smells blood in the water. “Is that why you’ve been slacking off, because you think you’re almost done?”

“I’ve been slacking off because I don’t give a shit about my grades,” Connor says flatly.

“You should be giving a shit about your grades,” Larry snaps. “This is your future we’re talking about, Connor. You need to try harder—do you even know what you want to do as a career? Have you even started applying to college?”

“No, and no,” Connor says, and crosses his arms. Leans back in his chair. Narrows his eyes.

“How can you have not thought about this yet?”

“Because I don’t give a shit,” Connor says, feeling sick anger rising in him like a dark tide. “My grades are already bad. No one’s going to want to take me, so I'm not going to worry about it.”

“Lots of colleges will want to take you if you just try.”

“It’s too late—do you understand? It’s _too fucking late_. I spent the past four years wanting to fucking _die_ , and I wasn’t worrying about my future then because I thought I wouldn’t have one.” Zoe and Cynthia are wide-eyed, watching the fight play out with their knuckles clenched on the table. “And now it’s too late, okay? I can’t try and fix that. And you know that. You _know_ that. But you don't fucking care.”

Larry opens his mouth, locks eyes with him, and then abruptly shuts it. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. Okay.” There’s an expression on his face that Connor is very used to seeing, but somehow has never been able to put a name to.

There’s a painful silence. Zoe clatters her fork against her plate loudly. Connor clenches his jaw. 

The expression Larry is wearing is grief. He looks devastated. 

Connor had always thought it was anger. 

“Dad,” he says, and Larry looks up, his brows drawn together tightly. 

“What.” He says it clipped, with a period at the end instead of a question mark. Irritated, unsympathetic. Terribly familiar. 

“Sorry.” Connor looks down, swirls his mashed potatoes into a little mountain with his fork. “I didn’t mean to say—anyway. Sorry.” He doesn’t look up, but he can feel everyone else at the table staring at him. “Whatever.”

“It’s all right,” Larry says gruffly. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I just worry about you. I want to see you succeed.” _I want to see you alive_ goes unspoken, but it’s there, hanging in the air over the table like dust motes caught in the light of the kitchen lamp. 

“I know.”

“It’s because I care.”

“Yeah.”

They recede back into silence, but it’s as peaceful of a silence as they can have anymore. 

Connor hasn’t apologized to Larry for anything in years. This is hardly even the worst fight they’ve had. He doesn’t know why he’d said that. He doesn’t know if it was a good idea. 

“What are you grateful for, Dad?” Zoe says quietly after a moment 

Larry hems and haws for a moment and then says that he’s grateful to be fortunate enough to have a roof over his head and food on his table. It’s the kind of meaningless platitude that the rest of them agree with and then instantly forget. But Connor can’t get that expression of grief that Larry had worn for a second out of his head. 

“What about you, Zoe?” Cynthia says. She looks elated, probably because they’re all getting along. 

Zoe shrugs, bowing her head down so her hair partially obscures her face. “I—um. I don’t know. I’m glad that Connor’s—here.”

No one says anything. Connor can feel her words in his chest like shards of glass; they stick there, hurting and hurting. _I’m glad that Connor’s here._ He doesn’t know how long he’s wanted one of them to say that, how long since he started thinking none of them would. She’s glad he’s here. 

He had almost taken those pills.

“That’s really sweet, Zoe,” Cynthia says. Her voice is a little choked up; Connor really doesn’t want her to start crying.

Zoe shrugs again and glances over at Connor. Their eyes lock for a second, and then she looks away. “Yeah, whatever.”

Connor’s chest hurts for the rest of dinner, but _I’m glad that Connor’s here_ sticks there too, fragile and full of warmth. 

***

After dinner, Connor helps Cynthia clean up, and Larry goes to the living room to watch the football game. Zoe goes upstairs; he thinks she’s planning to FaceTime Alana, who went to go visit family out of town for the holiday. 

He and Cynthia don’t talk much; she washes and he dries, and they listen to Larry’s reactions to the football game from the other room, exchanging amused glances when he starts yelling at the referee for a bad call. It’s nice. Almost normal.

When they’re done in the kitchen, Connor forgoes watching the game with Larry—Larry’s always wanted him to be more of a sports guy, but Connor hasn’t had athletic interests since a short-lived stint in Little League as a kid—to go upstairs. He pauses outside of Zoe’s door, listening to see if she’s on the phone with Alana, and then, when he hears only silence, knocks. 

There’s a moment’s pause and the sound of Zoe crossing the room. A second later, she opens the door. 

“Oh,” she says. “Need something?”

“Uh,” Connor says, shifting where he stands a little uncomfortably. “Yeah? Kinda? Can I—” He gestures towards the doorway and she holds the door open a little wider. 

“Yeah, come on in.”

He follows her in and then hovers awkwardly at by the desk while she flops back on her bed. 

“Oh my god,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You can sit down. Jesus.”

He perches on the edge of her desk chair. 

“So what’s up?” She leans back on her pillow and tucks up her feet, raising an eyebrow at him expectantly. Her laptop is open on the bed; it’s faced away from him so he can’t see what she was looking at. 

“I wanted to. Um. Talk?”

“About what?”

“About—” He gestures between the two of them. A little crease appears between her eyebrows but she doesn’t say anything. “I don't know. I’m trying to fix things, you know? Like with—Larry, downstairs. I wouldn’t have done that before.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“So, like. I guess I just want to talk about—what happened. With us. Between us.” He scuffs his toes up against the edge of the rug. “Everything I did.”

She just looks at him, her face unreadable. 

“I never apologized for any of that. And that’s—you know, I want to. Apologize, I mean.”

“For everything,” she says. It’s not a question. 

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. It’s hard to physically force the words out. “I just—I don’t want to be that anymore. I don’t want to be—that person. I’m trying not to be. And I wanted to apologize, because that’s the only thing I can do now. I’ve already broken so much.”

“Yeah.” She blows out a long breath. “Yeah. Okay. I don’t know—it’s a lot, you know? And I’ve been horrible to you as well, sometimes, you know—I didn’t help you when I could have, I—”

“You don’t need to apologize, it’s me that—”

“No,” she says. “We’ve all said some pretty fucked up things to each other. I remember we had this fight—you were high, you might not remember—you said you wanted to die, and I—I told you to just do it, you know? If you wanted to that badly? I was so angry at you and I just—” She half-turns her face away from him. “And then like a month later you—”

They don’t have the vocabulary to talk about it. They’ve never been able to talk about, and Connor doesn’t want to. 

“I don’t remember that,” he says. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t say it. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we both have things to apologize for. And trying to do it all at once is—a lot. So like.” 

“Yeah.”

“I just don’t think I can forgive you. Not for—you know, everything. And I guess it’s up to you if you can forgive me.”

“Okay,” he says. 

“I’m sorry, I just—I can’t. It’s—I need more time. I need time.”

“That’s fair.”

“You’re not upset?”

Connor is slightly surprised to find that he is indeed not upset. “No,” he says. “I understand. Thats, like, your right or whatever. But that doesn’t mean we still can’t try and fix things, right?”

“Right,” she says, and they exchange tired smiles. “I really did mean—you know, at dinner? I’m glad you’re here.”

And that’s enough, for now. She’s glad he’s here. 

***

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** hey losers its thanksgiving

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** u know what that means

**AlanaBeck:** What does that mean, Jared?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** we have 2 say something we’re grateful 4

**FuckKik:** i hate when u use numbers instead of words

**FuckKik:** take that shit back to ur calc class

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** hey murphy when r u going to change ur stupid username

**FuckKik:** when u change yours

**ZoeLovesJazz:** lol we already did the “what are you grateful for” thing during dinner

**ZoeLovesJazz:** but it’ll be more fun with you guys!!  Quick everyone say something they’re grateful for

**AlanaBeck:** I’m grateful that I have you guys 

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I’m grateful that we’re friends 

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I’m grateful for u losers

**FuckKik:** I’m glad we’re like friends or whatever

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** wow that was like

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** all at the same time???? like we planned it lmaoo

**ZoeLovesJazz:** that is soooo cute omg I'm gonna screenshot that

**FuckKik:** hey where’s evan?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** yea what r u grateful 4 acorn

**AlanaBeck:** He’s with family, probably? So he can’t answer his phone?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** nah he spends thanksgiving alone his mom works

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** weird that he’s not checking his phone bc usually he gets paranoid about missing messages from ppl

**AlanaBeck:** So he’s busy or something

**ZoeLovesJazz:** do you people freak out every time someone doesn’t respond immediately or

**FuckKik:** fuck off Zoe I was just asking???

**AlanaBeck:** Anyway, I’m happy I met all of you. You make life exponentially better. 

**ZoeLovesJazz:** thanks babe you too

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** what she said

**FuckKik:** idk about EXPONENTIALLY better but yea better for sure

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** wow don’t get too excited there murphy 

**FuckKik:** fuck off

***

**EvanHansen:** Hey guys

**EvanHansen:** Sorry this is so late, I wasn’t looking at my phone

**EvanHansen:** I’m grateful for you guys too. 

***

When they get back to school on Monday, everyone is complaining about the family fights they had over Thanksgiving, and the score of the football game. Connor is mainly just struck by how little this annoys him; he used to be set off by every complaint someone had about their family because _they don’t know what it’s like_ to have a really bad family fight. What he mainly wonders now is how many people make up entertaining family stories to cover up what really happens. These days, he’s infinitely more aware that he’s not the only one struggling. 

But while Connor feels better about life following Thanksgiving break, Evan seems uncharacteristically quiet when they go back to school. He’s succinct, even abrupt, when he talks, and most of what he says are apologies for what he’d been saying before. 

“Are you okay?” Alana asks him in Bio when he drops a beaker and then just stares at the broken shards with a stricken expression on his face. He nods and bends down to pick up the pieces of the beaker. 

“Hansen, what the fuck,” Connor says. 

Evan pauses, looks at him. “Sorry? I don’t—”

“Just don’t fucking pick up broken glass with your bare hands? Lemme get a dust pan or something. Jesus.”

Evan nods, and Connor turns to go get the dust pan from the corner and ask the teacher for a new beaker. The shards of broken glass wink at him menacingly from the corner of his eye. It brings back a sudden, painfully sharp memory—coming out of the hospital last year with stitches in his wrists and finding that every sharp object in the house was locked in a safe under his parents’ bed. Going into the bathroom, smashing the mirror. Sinking the sharp edge of the pieces into his arm and immediately being sick because all he could think was— _too deep, too deep,_ that feeling of knowing that he’d gone too deep to control it anymore. Cynthia finding him vomiting into the toilet with a bloody arm. 

He hands Evan the dustpan. 

“Here, let me,” Alana says briskly. “You two are a little spacey today, aren’t you?”

Connor shrugs. “Not really.”

Evan doesn’t say anything. 

Connor spends an unhappy English period worrying about him and fighting off the itchy feeling on his arms. 

He’d told Dr. Lee about the pills from the beginning of the year; he’d made sure to tell her that he wasn’t planning on taking them anymore, but it was still—a lot. They’d spent all of their sessions since then talking about it, and discussing it so much has brought up some horribly familiar feelings. Not necessarily the urge to do anything, the conviction that he needs to hurt to feel anything, but just—the terribly clear memory of feeling that way. Dr. Lee says that it’s normal to be triggered when talking about past trauma, that as long as he reaches out for the help he needs he’ll be okay, but he hates it. It doesn’t make him feel normal. It makes him feel like a freak. 

During his Shakespeare elective—a class he took in part because he loves _Hamlet_ , and partly as a slap in the face to Larry, who’d wanted him to take business that period instead—he leaves class to go to the bathroom. It’s mainly to just get a break—the quiet of the class-time hallways seeps into his skin like healing balm; he can catch glimpses of people talking, learning, taking notes through the windows in the classroom doors, but it’s from a safe distance. He’s looking in rather than being a part of it all. It’s a sense of aloneness that used to feel isolating but now just feels peaceful. 

He’s almost at the bathroom when someone comes running down the adjoining hallway; their breath ragged. Connor only has a moment to half-turn before the person barrels into him at full speed, slamming him against the wall—Connor rebounds, snarling, fists clenched, and then—

“Sorry,” Evan says, “sorry sorry sorry, I—sorry, I didn’t mean to—I was just—why are you—?” His eyes are wild, like a trapped animal’s. His chest is heaving.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Connor says. “What are—Evan, listen, look at me. Hey. Look. Are you okay?”

Evan nods, very rapidly and many times in a row. “Sorry, I just—I'm having—I need to—” He makes an inarticulate gesture and takes several rapid steps back. His arms are wrapped around himself tightly and his face is flushed. “Panic attack,” he says. “Connor, I think—I’m gonna be sick—I’m sorry, you should—I’m sorry.” 

“You’re going to be sick?” Connor says. “Let’s get you in the bathroom—”

“You should go,” Evan says. “You should go you should go you should—”

“I’m not going to leave you alone like this.” Connor scans the hallway; there’s no one else walking around but them. “The bathroom’s just around the corner, can you walk?”

Evan nods miserably. He’s unsteady on his feet but he follows Connor to the bathroom, and, once inside, slides down the wall so he’s sitting on the floor. After a second, he puts his head down into his arms and sits there, huddled into a silent ball. The only sound in the room is the echoing of his harsh, wet breathing against the tiled walls. It’s an ugly, desperate sound. 

Connor sits down next to him, a few feet away so that Evan won’t feel cornered, and then reaches an arm across the space between them. “I’m not gonna touch you,” he says quietly. “But if you wanna, like. Hold my hand or something. Or anything. Sometimes it’s good to like—ground yourself.”

Evan glances up at him. His face is red, exhausted. After a second he reaches out a hand and takes Connor’s. Connor squeezes it, tightly. 

“I’m here,” he says. “Take how ever much time you need.”

Evan squeezes back—faintly, with a cold and clammy grip—and then puts his head back down. Connor feels a sudden surge of protectiveness of him, and the sudden conviction that Evan is his hill to die upon. In that moment, it’s utterly bewildering to think that it was only in September that he had thought Evan had been laughing at him, had pushed him to the ground. He thinks that if someone shoved Evan now, he’d probably have to kill them. 

After what seems like a long while but is probably only a few minutes, Evan looks up and squeezes Connor’s hand again, a little more tightly. 

“I’m okay,” he says. 

“Are you?”

He shrugs. He’s still holding Connor’s hand. 

“What happened?” Connor asks. 

“Nothing. It just—happened. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Evan just shakes his head. 

“Do you still think you’re going to be sick?”

“No,” Evan says. “Sorry—s-sorry, just—when I’m panicking? I get nauseous and then I start, like—um, like worrying I’m going to throw up and then it’s all I can think about and then I’m scared I won’t be able to get away in time and I’ll throw up in front of everyone and people will, like, laugh? Sorry. I’m okay.”

“I don’t think you are,” Connor says. “Are you sure nothing set you off, or—”

“I—um, sorry, I don’t want to like. Talk about it.”

Connor opens his mouth, about to protest, and then lets out a deep breath. It’s up to Evan how much he wants to share or ask for help. It’s not fair to push him. 

That doesn’t abate the sick feeling he has in the pit of his stomach. 

“Okay,” he says. “That’s okay. I’m here.”

Evan squeezes his hand again and then lets go. “You should g-go back to class.”

“I’ll walk with you back to yours. You’re in history right now, right?”

Evan flushes. “I—sorry, I’m, um, I’m going to the nurse’s office? Sorry, just—I can’t go back to class or—it’ll happen again, and, and the nurse usually writes me a note so I don’t have to go back?”

“Okay,” Connor says. “I’ll walk with you there then.”

He feels weirdly helpless; he doesn’t know what to say or how to calm Evan down when Evan won’t even tell him what he needs. 

They walk to the nurse’s office in silence together. When they get there, the nurse doesn’t even ask Evan what he’s there for, just points to a chair and tells him to take a few deep breaths while she writes up a note to his history teacher. It’s this whole strangely isolating coping system that Connor didn’t even know Evan had. 

“You can go,” Evan mumbles after a second, and Connor, unable to find anything to say as comfort, turns and walks away with that sick feeling of dread still heavy in his chest. 

***

After a great deal of debate, it’s decided that Connor will apply to two state colleges and the local community college. If he's not accepted into the state schools, he’ll take a year or two to take a few classes at the community college and get a part time job to build his resume. It’s not a compromise he’s particularly happy with, but it’s the least amount of work that his parents will agree to—his initial proposal of him not worrying about it until after graduation had been quickly shot down. 

Luckily, he has a lot more resources for this sort of thing now than he did in the past—the minute Alana hears that he’s applying to college, she sends him a ton of links to college confidential, a study guide for the English midterm, and a long pdf full of advice on how to build a resume. Then she immediately goes into the group chat and bullies Evan and Jared into joining her and Connor at the library over the weekend to peer edit their essays. Connor appreciate the help, he really does, but he’s not sure how much he’ll be able to help her in return; she’s applying to all the Ivy League schools, and that’s not even half of the colleges on her list. He doubts he’ll have much to add to any of her applications, but she assures him she wants his help, so he’ll try. 

Evan backs out of the library meeting at the last minute, so it’s just him, Jared, and Alana who end up meeting up. Jared grumbles a little about being forced to spend time thinking about school while not actually at school, and Alana seems a little stressed, but otherwise it goes smoothly; they edit each other essays in silence, and take turns going on coffee runs in between applications. 

It’s not until they’re almost done that Alana says, “Listen, I have an idea.”

“Don’t you always,” Jared says, rolling his neck. “If I read another essay I’m going to set myself on fire. Are we done? Oh, you had an idea. Share.”

“I think we should do a Secret Santa for Christmas.”

“I have never been so glad to realize that someone is not talking about college in my life,” Jared says. “I thought maybe you had an idea for another essay. But Secret Santa—I'm down. Actually, though, Evan and I are Jewish, so can it be, like, Secret Hanukah?”

“Oh, I didn’t know you two were Jewish,” Alana says. “We could—”

“I’m fucking kidding, don’t worry. Well, I was kidding about calling it Secret Hanukah, not about being Jewish. Whatever. Either way I’m down. Murphy?”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Connor says, shutting his laptop. “Are we going to draw names and stuff?”

“That would be a good idea,” Alana says. “We can get it organized and then draw names the last week of school before Christmas break. And then meet up and exchange gifts sometime over break if everyone is here.”

“That’s a good idea,” Connor says. 

“Yeah, you always have good ideas for bringing us all together,” Jared says, and then looks a little uncomfortable, like genuine compliments don’t come naturally to him. 

Alana blushes, looking pleased. “Well, I mean—I try. We should ask the others about it first, though—I don’t want to force anyone to buy a gift if they can’t afford it or anything.”

“Evan will be psyched about it, don’t worry,” Jared says, and when the other two send him chiding looks, rolls his eyes. “What, like you were talking about _Zoe_ not being able to afford it? We all know the Murphys are _loaded_. Stop looking at me like that. Speaking of Evan, I'm fucking suspicious about him not showing up today because he has more essays to write than any of us.”

“Suspicious of what?” Alana asks sensibly. 

“I don’t _know_ , Alana, stop oppressing me with your logic. I’m just saying it’s weird. But then again, everything about Evan is weird, so.”

“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” Alana says. “He might have had therapy or something. Or maybe he just feels he’d be more productive working alone. Speaking of which, how’s that essay going?”

“Fucking awful, thanks for asking. Not that the essay is horrible, I just don’t want to read any more of them. I’m almost done with it, though.”

“I’m done with the last of yours,” she says. “It was really good, I just made few stylistic corrections. Oh, and I’m starting your last one, Connor.”

He gives her a thumbs up and reopens his laptop. “I think—yeah, this is one of yours. I’m done with all of Jared’s, though.”

They retreat back into comfortable silence, momentarily broken by Jared laughing at a meme page. Alana shoots him a look of half-fond annoyance, and Connor rolls his eyes. 

He likes that this is his normal, now. He likes being used to this. 

***

**AlanaBeck:** While we were at the library, Jared, Connor and I came up with an idea for the holidays!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** i spy w my lil eye a missing oxford comma :/ thought u were better than that

**AlanaBeck:** You’re right, I’m sorry. 

**AlanaBeck:** *Jared, Connor, and I

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** there we go

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** for those of u who don’t know, A and i have decided to form a secret vigilante society in defense of the oxford comma

**ZoeLovesJazz:** damn what happened at that study group you guys went to??? 

**AlanaBeck:** Lots of essay reading, mostly.

**AlanaBeck:** And a debate about the Oxford comma. 

**AlanaBeck:** Anyway, we were talking about maybe doing a Secret Santa for Christmas! What do you and Evan think?

**ZoeLovesJazz:** Oooohh I love secret santa!!! Yes yes yes yes yes

**EvanHansen:** I would really like that! I’ve never done a secret santa before :)

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** sad!

**FuckKik:** stfu

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** stop oppressing me

**AlanaBeck:** I was thinking that I could print up all of our names, and put them in a hat/jar/something, and then we could all draw a name the last week before break!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I have a better proposition

**ZoeLovesJazz:** how about I do all that, because you have college apps deadlines coming up, and I don’t. I don’t want you to be unnecessarily stressed, babe  
**FuckKik:** “”””babe””””””

**ZoeLovesJazz:** stop oppressing me

**ZoeLovesJazz:** omg I’ve officially spent too much time around jared RIPPPP

**AlanaBeck:** Would you really help me out with organizing the secret santa, though?”

**ZoeLovesJazz:** absolutely!!! I know you have a lot of your plate :)

**AlanaBeck:** That would be so kind of helpful, thank you!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** a) zoe i’m proud of u b) look at A-Z’s healthy and caring relationship damnnn

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** when will the rest of us find love

**FuckKik:** u n me?? never

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** that’s fair

**AlanaBeck:** I’m excited for SS, you guys! I haven’t done something like this in such a long time!! And it’s Evan’s first time, so we have to make it special!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** that would make A FANTASTIC porno name r u kidding rn

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** “it’s evan’s first time, so we have to make it special” LOVE IT

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** y’all see the lemon stealing whore vid? LOVE THAT VIDEO

**FuckKik:** ur like a poster child for getting distracted by stupid shit

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** u can’t drag me until u change ur stupid username

**FuckKik:** never

***

During the last week before Christmas break, the students are restless, the teachers are tired, and most classes are playing an endless loop of _Elf_ so that no one has to do any real work. The only true school-related activity they have is when the academic advisors call all of the seniors into their office for a talk about college admissions; Connor’s advisor mainly just regards him with a certain degree of sadness, and talks about how far Connor has come since being a freshman. It makes Connor a little uncomfortable, because he remembers far too many sessions of sitting in that office trying to convey why exactly his grades were dropping while the advisor regarded him without sympathy and told him there were no excuses for doing so poorly in school. Connor’s mainly at B’s and C’s now; he’s not failing even one class—not even math, although that’s mainly due to Alana’s help—and somehow it’s become a weird source of pride for him. But it’s not something he wants to share with one of the countless adults who sat there watching him flounder, telling him he should be able to swim better without throwing him a lifeline. 

It’s been four months since the beginning of school—it seems like both a lifetime and only a few minutes ago. Connor can very clearly picture his past self walking around the hallways of the high school in place of him, his earbuds in and his hand clenched around the strap of his messenger bag, the stares of the people around him prickling his skin like so many tiny needles. Deep inside him, there’s a strange nostalgic ache at the thought of that version of himself, the person that could lean back and let go and watch as life passed over and through and out of him. That person is dead now, but not in the way he’d imagined he would be. 

Connor has never felt so far from that person. 

He knows that a relapse—that dark place, that hole—is only a few steps away, lurking behind a corner waiting to catch him at an inopportune moment. He knows that it will take a long time before he can get to where other people are at, that healing takes time and regression and progression and forgiveness. He knows that there are many things he’s broken that might not ever be fixed. But he also has a future—a plan for after graduation—and he doesn’t always dread the thought of facing it.

Four months is a long time, he thinks. Four months is enough to bring yourself back from the dead.

In English, the teacher gives them some free time to work on their college essays; Alana pulls out her laptop with a religious zeal, and, upon seeing that Connor is not following her lead, says, “There’s no way you’re done, right?”

“I still need to finish editing,” he says. “But I don’t wanna do that now; it’s only three essays and the community college one is super short. I have time.”

“Then don’t waste it,” she says imperiously, and then pauses. “Have you drawn for Secret Santa yet? I have.”  
“No, I’ll do it during lunch; I forgot to do it in the morning. Who did you get?”

“The whole point of Secret Santa is that it’s _secret_ , Connor.”

“I mean if it’s not me, then just tell me?”

“But what if it is you?”

“Then lie?”

“That would be _dishonest_.”

“Oh my god,” he says. “Go edit your essays, then.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I feel sorry for whoever Jared gets; it’ll probably be a gag gift.”

“I wouldn’t mind a gag gift,” Connor says. “I mean. It’s not really about the gifts, is it? More like, just like the spirit and the thought behind it or whatever?” When she raises an eyebrow at him, he pulls a face. “Whatever, I haven’t done a Secret Santa in like a million years. Maybe not ever. Fuck off.”

“I haven’t either,” she says. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

At lunch, Zoe plops a pencil case down in front of Jared, Evan, and Connor, and commands them to draw a name out of it. 

“A pencil case, really?” Jared says, fishing a slip of paper out and unfolding it. “You couldn’t have produced, like, a velvet bag or a top hat or something?”

“Shut up,” Zoe says. “Got your name?”

“Yeah, got it.” He grins at the paper and shoves it in his pocket. 

Evan draws next; he blushes and hurriedly crumples the paper up in his hand before ducking his head. Connor wonders if it’s Zoe, and then hopes it’s not, and then is angry with himself for having the thought at all. 

When it’s Connor’s turn, he pulls out the last name and unfolds it. It says _Jared_ in Zoe’s loopy scrawl. There’s a weird sinking feeling in his stomach for a split second, which he’s confused by, because he wasn’t really hoping for anyone in particular, and then it passes, and he just puts the paper in his pocket. Jared will probably be a good person to shop for; ninety percent of his personality is conveyed through graphic t-shirts, so Connor will probably get him one of those. 

“Okay, that’s everyone,” Zoe says. “We can come up with a date to exchange gifts that works for everyone some time over break.” She pauses, and the adds, “It’s kind of crazy it’s Christmas already? Like, so much has been happening lately?”

“Not to be a sentimental shit, but I agree,” Jared says. “Tons of stuff has changed. Or, like, whatever.”

“That might be the most genuine emotion I’ve ever seen out of you,” Zoe says thoughtfully. 

“I’m _working_ on it, sue me.”

“My dad’s a lawyer, I totally will.”

“You’re not eighteen yet,” Jared fires back, and the table abruptly dissolves into a debate about the legality of suing someone when you’re underage. Zoe is trying to say something about having an older person sue for you on your behalf, Jared is just trying to talk over her as loudly as possible, and Alana is pulling up legal documents on her phone and sticking them in people’s faces. 

Across the table, Connor tries to catch Evan’s eye to share a smile over the ridiculousness of their friends, but Evan is just staring at the floor. He’s itching at his wrist, right in the spot where his cast used to be. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> foreshadowing?? yea I know her
> 
> -my tamblr.com account may be found [here](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com/). I complain about editing and updating a lot.  
> -[this post](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is) wants to be reblogged.   
> -the cathartic release of emotion u experience when listening to you will be found??? smash that kudos button if u agree  
> -I love reading comments almost as much as will rowland loves bowling. consider leaving one.   
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	15. Interlude (Larry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I'M BACK I know it's been a while how is everyone doing??? college is s o f u c k I n g b u s y and I have no time to write so I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter!!! I promise I am doing my best. also I have had less than 2 hours of sleep in the past 40 hours as a whole so pls bear with me if these notes are a little strange. 
> 
> today the interlude goes to LARRY and I am NERVOUS because the perception of Larry murphy in this fandom is somewhat negative but I actually do think he's a sympathetic character and in need of help and love just like the rest of the characters and idk where all the hate came from BUT ANYWAY pls read the interlude and enjoy it regardless of what u think about Larry murphy.

Larry Murphy’s drive home from work is usually a long and slow one. He listens to the news on the radio to pass the time, which is always either boring or depressing, but better than silence. He honks his horn at other commuters, and scowls when they honk back. He looks at the clock and finds no time has passed since the last time he looked. And then, abruptly, always both sooner and later than he had been expecting, he is home. 

For a man like Larry Murphy, home means a sanctuary from the stresses of work, a place to kick up his feet and watch the game after dinner, a smile between him and his wife, a burst of pride at the sight of his children. Home means _safe_ , means _whole_ , means _happy_. 

He’s not sure he has a home anymore. 

The monotony of his days in recent years have only been broken by ugly fights with Cynthia and Connor until those too have become part of the monotony. No one’s happy at their house; Zoe cries in her room, Connor lashes out at improbable offenses, Cynthia runs herself ragged trying to find something to blame. Larry, for his part, is lost. At the beginning he’d thought that Connor would straighten out like Larry himself did after a rebellious adolescence, with some tough love and time. Now, he’s not so sure that’s true.

So few things are certain in a house where he worries that his son will kill himself as a result of every argument they have. 

Today, his drive home is the same as always; the radio blares depressing news, and he gets off the highway early to avoid the traffic jam at the exit closest to the suburbs. When he opens the garage, only Cynthia’s car is there; Zoe must be out. She goes out a lot, and he can’t blame her—the cyclic misery of their house makes escape tempting. 

_Escape_ is a word that comes up a lot in his fights with Cynthia. Escape from this, escape from you, escape from everything. 

When he goes inside, Cynthia’s sitting in the living room with a glass of wine and a book titled _Methods of Self-Improvement for the Modern Day Woman_. She’s going through a big self-help book phase right now; it’s not her first. He thinks that maybe she hopes she can help them all by helping herself. 

“I’m home,” he says, and she looks up. 

“I heard you come in.” She doesn’t get up. 

“Where are the kids?”

“Out,” she says. “They’re meeting with those friends Connor made; Alana and Jack and Ethan or something.”

“Both of them? Together?”

“They’ve been doing that a lot lately,” she says, a little accusingly, like there’s an implied _you would know if you were here._ But he doesn’t point it out, because the subject of how much he works when things get tough has been a point of contention between them for a while and it won’t get solved tonight. 

“Well, Connor shouldn’t be going out,” he grumbles, leaning up against the doorframe of the living room. “He has those college essays to work on.”

“He’s been working on them; he went to go do some peer-editing with friends a few days ago. He said he’s almost done.”

“But do we know that? How do we know he wasn’t getting high in a park?” 

“You need to put more trust in him,” she says fiercely. “He’s not going to get better if you’re always accusing him of being worse.”

“You let him run wild; that’s how we got here in the first place.”

“Don’t you blame me for this—you and your _we just need patience and time_ when what you were really doing was letting all of our opportunities to help him slip away. I had to beg you to get the therapy, _Zoe_ had to beg you for the medication—”

“Can we not have this fight?” Larry says loudly. “It’s not going to fix anything, Cynthia.”

She just looks at him, and she doesn’t have to say anything. He’s so tired. He’s so tired. He used to think that if they ignored the problem, it would go away, but the sickness in Connor ate him up in the silence instead. He’s so tired. 

“He’s getting better,” Cynthia says finally. “He’s getting _better_. He’s _trying_.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

They look at each other, silent. The air between them is filled with all of the terrible things they’ve said, to one another, about one another, about their son.

“It’s okay that you don’t know what to do,” she says. “None of us know, Larry. It’s okay that you don’t have all the answers.”

And she’s never said that before. They raged at each other about how to treat Connor, about who is right, about what the best thing to do is. But they’ve never admitted how lost they really are. 

“I’m trying to forgive,” she says at last when he doesn’t reply. “You should try it.” Then she turns back to her book, and Larry is left there in the doorway with nothing more to say, and no one to listen. 

Last year, Cynthia and Zoe had both left the hospital to sleep, or to get food, or to go home for a bit. Larry had been the only one to never leave the waiting room, from the minute Connor was checked in to the minute they signed his release papers. 

There’s some part of him that still hasn’t left that waiting room. There’s some part of him that’s still stuck there, watching his son’s life run out of his wrists, overwhelmed by everything he had done wrong, everything he could not control. Trying to grasp life with both hands and finding that it was beyond grasping anymore. Realizing how much he couldn’t fix. 

_I’m trying to forgive._  
He has to learn to leave that waiting room behind. He has to learn to forgive. They will make a home of this house yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now back to your regularly scheduled programming. y'all were very concerned about Evan in the comments section last chapter, so click that next chapter button and find out what, if anything, is going on with him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go lads!!!

On the first day of Christmas break, Connor wakes up feeling good. It’s early, and the house is quiet, and everything inside him feels cool and still like the sky has rained into his chest and washed away all the heaviness. 

He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, letting the sleepiness seep out of him bit by bit, and then he swings his feet out of bed and makes his way downstairs. No one else is up; the floors creak under his weight in the silence, and the kitchen seems almost foreign without the usual bustle of breakfast. He’s surprised Cynthia at least isn’t up—she usually wakes up earlier than the rest of them to get breakfast going and force them to eat as a family. 

After a minute of staring at the empty kitchen, he decides to make something to eat, and then is immediately struck with the idea to make something for everyone—there are ingredients for pancakes in the pantry, and no point in making pancakes for one person. 

It’s been a while since he’s actually cooked something for himself—if Cynthia isn’t forcing him into a family dinner, or if, more recently, he isn’t out with friends, he tends to forget to eat—but it all goes pretty smoothly. He manages to avoid getting eggshell in the batter, and after some struggling, whisks all the lumps of flour out into smoothness. It’s only when it comes time to actually cook the pancakes that things really start to go wrong—he forgets to grease the pan and subsequently the first one sticks to the bottom and ends up burnt. So. Maybe this wasn’t the wisest idea. 

“I smelled something burning and figured I should come rescue you,” Zoe’s voice says from behind him; Connor jumps and turns to see her perched on the edge of the kitchen table. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” he says. “I didn’t hear you come in?”

“Yeah, you were too busy burning your pancakes,” she says. “When was the last time you cooked?”

“Fuck off, I don’t know. Come help me get the burnt batter off if you’re going to be so superior about it.”

She helps him scrape off the burnt pancake batter from the bottom of the pan, and then greases it for him. 

“There’s a trick to this,” she says. “You always need more butter than you think you do. Here—lemme do the first one.”

He hands her the spatula, and then watches as she expertly pours more batter into the pan and waits for it to cook. 

“How do you know when to flip it?”

“When it starts bubbling, and the edges get a little firm. If you do it before that, it’ll fall apart when you try to flip it.” She prods the edge of the pancake. “This’ll probably do it—here we go.”

Connor watches as she flips the pancake over expertly, and reveals a perfect golden-brown bottom. 

“Now _that_ is how you do it,” she says with a grin. “You try flipping one when this one is done on the other side.”

It takes him a few tries to get it right, but once he manages it, it’s easy. 

“I’m better than you now—look how high I can flip it—oh, shit.” Connor watches as the ambitiously flipped pancake falls to the ground. “Okay, well. I was doing good before that?”

“You two look like you’re having fun,” Cynthia says, and they both turn to see her standing in the doorway of the kitchen in her pajamas, looking both perplexed and pleased. Connor abruptly realizes that most of the fun he and Zoe have together occurs when they’re outside the house with the others—Cynthia’s probably not aware of how far they’ve come together. 

“We are,” he says. He hesitates, and then adds, “We’re making breakfast for everyone so you don’t have to do it? Uh—we’re making pancakes.”

“Oh,” she says. Then: “I’ll make coffee, then.” 

They shuffle aside to let her use the coffee maker, and the three of them work in silence together, filling the air with the smell of coffee and pancakes. It feels—natural. Like they can make room for each other and coexist without conflict. Connor hasn’t felt this way around his family in a long time. 

When Larry comes down later, he sits and eats with them without saying much, but he doesn't hide behind the wall of his newspaper for once, and it’s stupid, but Connor feels hopeful about that. 

“It was so nice of you to think of this,” Cynthia says when they’re all sitting down together. She says it largely in Zoe’s direction, which—okay, hurts a little, but it’s not like Connor doesn’t get it. He does. 

“Actually Connor thought of it,” Zoe says firmly, pouring a small ocean of syrup over her plate. “He’d already made the batter and everything by the time I came down; I just taught him to, like, flip the pancakes.”

Connor finds himself pinned to his seat by the scrutinizing gaze of both their parents. 

“You—?” Cynthia says. She looks remarkably hopeful. Connor squirms in his seat.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says. “I was hungry, and like—whatever.”

“Well.” Cynthia purses her lips and looks down at her plate like she’s seeing it for the first time. “It’s very nice to not have to worry about making breakfast, so—thank you.”

Connor mumbles something that’s incomprehensible even to himself, and hopes that Larry doesn’t say anything too. 

“They’re good pancakes,” Larry says gruffly. 

“Thanks,” Connor mutters. 

Cynthia beams at the two of them, and Connor feels a sick pang of guilt in his stomach at the thought that things have been so bad that a few cordial words between him and Larry is something to celebrate. Then Zoe nudges his leg with her foot, and when he looks over at her, rolls her eyes affectionately, and the sickness recedes a little. 

Maybe the small victories are worth celebrating after all. They’re what got him to where he is with Zoe, where he is with himself. 

_You have to learn to forgive yourself._

He rolls his eyes back at Zoe, and shoots a sheepish smile over at Cynthia. When she smiles back, he allows it to wash away the rest of the guilt. Small victories can be enough. 

***

A few days after break begins, Alana texts Connor to tell him that she’s dropping by his house in fifteen minutes to pick him up and go shopping. 

 **just cause i’m gay doesnt mean i like shopping? i wear the same hoodie every day what makes u think i would be good at shopping** he texts back, but he’s already heading down the hall to get his shoes. Alana could tell him she was picking him up to go to New Zealand in fifteen minutes, and he would still probably drop everything and go; that’s just how life is now. 

A few seconds later she shoots back _Okay, that’s totally not why I asked you, but now that you mention it, we should buy you some new clothes while we’re out because that hoodie is getting frightful._

 **ok president blazer** he texts back, and then she’s pulling up in the driveway, and he’s calling to Cynthia to tell her where he’s going, and then he’s in the car. 

“Aren’t you supposed to say _get in loser, we’re going shopping_?” Connor says, collapsing into the passenger seat. 

“Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I like Mean Girls,” she says, rolling her eyes. “But nice job exposing yourself as having seen it.”

“So what if I’ve seen it? I’m not exposing anything. I’m _proud_ of having seen it. It’s a _good_ fucking movie, Alana.”

“Doesn’t it conflict with the whole—drummer in a death metal band image?”

“I’m flattered that’s what you think my image is,” he says. “Most people think it leans a little more school shooter than drummer.”  He means it as a joke, but it falls flat in the air between them. Hits the windshield. Lands on the floor. 

“I hate when people say that stuff about you,” Alana says finally. Her knuckles are tight on the steering wheel, and she’s frowning. “I always tell them to stop if I hear it.”

“Whatever,” he says. “I don’t care.”

“ _I_ care,” she says, and that, too, is heavy between them, but in a very different way. She _cares_. 

“Okay,” Connor says when the silence becomes a little uncomfortable. “Um. So what is the occasion of this outing? Did you really just want to go shopping with me, or—?”

“Oh—it’s for the Secret Santa thing. Listen, you have to swear to secrecy about this, okay?”

“I thought you didn’t want to tell anyone who you got?”

“That’s where the secrecy thing comes in,” she says. “I got Zoe, okay? And I want to make sure that her gift is _perfect_ , because—well, you know. It’s _Zoe_. And I thought you would probably have some good ideas and second opinions about what she’d like or not like. Because, you know, you’re her brother.”

“Oh,” Connor says. “Well—you might have better ideas than me, really, I mean—” He fixes his gaze on the horizon beyond the windshield, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. “Like. We’ve only recently started being, like, close or whatever. So like, I don’t know a ton about what she likes or anything. Okay, that sounds shitty, I know what she likes, but—I don’t know how useful I'll be.”

There’s a slightly awkward pause, and then Alana says, very gently, “Well, I’ll value any input you have. It doesn’t have to be groundbreaking, okay? The gift is from me, not you. There’s no pressure, I really just wanted company. And sometimes it’s hard to ask someone to spend time with me just _because_ ; I feel that I need an excuse.”

Connor nods. Tears his eyes away from the horizon to look at her. Nods again. 

“Okay, good talk,” she says. “We’re going to go to the mall first, okay? And if I can’t find anything there, we can drive downtown. Hey, do you have any Christmas shopping to do?”

“I got Jared for Secret Santa, but I think I’ll order something for him online; I want to get him some niche meme thing or one of those stupid graphic t shirts he wears, and it’d probably be easier to find that shit online? But I have to get stuff for my family, or whatever, so. I’ll see if I can get any shopping done.”

“Do you know what you’re getting them?” She says, frowning at the exit sign they’d just passed. “We have one more exit, I think. I don’t go to the mall much.”

“Yeah, me neither.” They exchange rueful smiles; there’s not much fun in going to the mall by yourself, and until this year, neither of them had had much occasion to go with anyone else. “I don’t know what I’m going to get my family. Larry especially—he’s. Well. You know.”

“Yeah,” she says thoughtfully. “I have trouble getting my parents things; I feel like I always have to be impressing them? So I'll get them some really smart academic text even though they’re both professors and they get enough of academic texts at work, or try and make them something when I'm really not an arts and crafts person, and just—it’s a whole thing. It’s not really the problem you have, but I get it, I suppose.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

They take the next exit off the highway and end up having to spend another fifteen minutes on side roads because they’d gone a few exits too far. It’s okay, though—Alana turns her GPS on and engages in an active and frustrated dialogue with it (“No, _you_ make a U-turn”), and Connor nearly dies laughing. It’s a good feeling. 

At the mall, they wander around aimlessly for a bit until Alana finds a cute boutique that she thinks might have some good gifts. When they go inside, Connor feels weirdly conspicuous; he’s clearly not the intended demographic for the pink, frilly shop, and he feels like the other customers are staring at him. But maybe that’s just in his head, so he silently trails behind Alana as she looks through notebooks and novelty mugs and tries not to think about it too much. Occasionally she’ll ask his opinion and he’ll try to decide if Zoe would like the gift or not, but they end up leaving fairly quickly because the lady at the counter starts following them around like she thinks they’re shoplifting, and they both get uncomfortable. 

“This is why I never go to the mall,” Alana says, and he snorts. “Let’s try somewhere else.”

Connor ends up finding a scarf he thinks Cynthia would like at the next place they go to; it’s rose pink and covered in the minuscule text of positive affirmations: _you are beautiful, you are loved, you are not alone_. He thinks it’s the sort of thing she would like—she likes those inspiring TED talks and self-help books. Alana considers buying her mother the same thing, but then decides that her mother doesn’t wear enough pink for it to be a practical accessory. Instead, she settles on a sleek personal calendar that has a different inspiring quote for each week.

“Not to be gender normative,” she says, “but I think that moms liking inspirational stuff is a universal thing.”

They go for ice cream after that—or rather, frozen yogurt, because Alana insists it’s not the same thing even though it tastes exactly the same to Connor—and then go downtown, where Alana finally finds the perfect gift: an embossed leather guitar strap from a vintage store. She doesn’t even ask Connor what he thinks; she just runs right up to the register and throws her wallet down on the counter. 

“She’s going to _love_ it,” she says, and Connor completely agrees. It’s nice to see her so excited about it, too—she and Zoe really like each other, and it shows, in little things like this. 

When he gets home, he wonders if he should get Evan something. He knows he got Jared for Secret Santa, but—Evan has done so much for him. It’d be nice to get him something, to find something that Evan would really like and care about. Just as a way to say thank you. 

He’ll think about it. 

***

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** sup homos

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** the secret santa thing is this weekend rite 

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** also i know were not supposed 2 tell anyone who we got BUT

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** lets just say an insanely cool someone bought evan an insanely cool gift

 **AlanaBeck:** JARED YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TELL ANYONE WHO YOU GOT AND YOU LITERALLY JUST TOLD ALL OF US

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** I DIDNT ACTUALLY TELL ANYONE OMG CALM DOWN???

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** sdkjgsdjhg omg it’s not like that was a subtle hint we all know its you

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** literally SCREAMING w laughter rn I can’t believe you did that

 **FuckKik:** she rlly is screaming, i can hear her next door ://

 **ZoeLoveJazz:** shut up connor 

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** also to answer your question jared yeah it’s this weekend

 **EvanHansen:** Guys I’m sorry but I don’t think I can come

 **EvanHansen:** SOrry I just got back from vacation and things are kind of crazy

 **EvanHansen:** so yeah I don’t think I can come sorry you guys can do it without me

 **AlanaBeck:** We can change the day if you’d like! I don’t think any of us would be opposed to that :)

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** yeah for sure!!!

 **EvanHansen** : no sorry I can’t come

 **EvanHansen:** sorry

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** ok wtf??? u totally aren’t on vacation dude u would have told us about that earlier 

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** that’s just like not true tf

 **EvanHansen:** yeah sorry I was on vacation

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** and that’s gonna prevent u from coming to ONE meet up for the entirety of breaK????

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** like I was so excited to give u ur present but fuck that I guess????

 **EvanHansen:** sorry

 **AlanaBeck:** Jared, maybe back off a little.

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** nah he’s been ditching on doing stuff with us for a while

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman** : it’s okay if we don’t mean shit 2 u anymore dude

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** fuck u evan

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** asshole

 **EvanHansen:** sor ry

Connor sets down his phone, disoriented. Next door, Zoe is no longer laughing. No one else puts anything in the group chat. 

A second later, Zoe raps on his door frame. 

“You don’t have to knock, it’s not like theres a door,” he says. “But come on in.”

“It’s a common courtesy,” she says, walking over to the desk and sitting at the chair. “Did you read what just went down in group chat?”

“Yeah.”

“Thoughts?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Yeah, same.” She spins around in the chair. “Like—Evan has been ditching on us a lot, but Jared—like, that was an overreaction.”

“Yeah.”

“But mainly I’m worried about Evan?”

“Yeah—he definitely didn’t go on vacation, I—” He breaks off, tries to put the uneasy feeling in his chest into words. “I don’t know why he would be avoiding us if something wasn’t wrong.” All he can think about is Evan lying about getting his cast off, lying about whether he’d taken his medication, lying about how he broke his arm. Lying about being on vacation. _I didn’t fall, I didn’t fall, I didn’t fall._

“Yeah, exactly. And, like, I don’t blame Jared for being upset, because it’s kinda shitty to just ditch last minute like that and refuse to change the date or whatever. But he was so harsh, and if Evan’s not doing okay—”

“Yeah.” They look at each other in silence for a moment. Connor can see the same tension that he’s feeling mirrored in her eyes. “I think I’m going to go to his house. Tomorrow. To check up on him. And text him tonight, just to—make sure he’s responding?”

“I’ll text him too,” she says. “And yeah, go tomorrow. I’d offer to come too, but I think a ton of people showing up would probably overwhelm him. And you two are, like, close.”

“Okay.” He lets out a long breath. “Okay.”

Evan is going to be okay. Evan has to be okay. 

***

Connor hasn’t been smoking so much anymore—it’s been a gradual thing, part a conscious effort and part an unconscious step away from the things that made him smoke—but tonight he can’t sleep. He stress smokes his way through a whole pack of cigarettes outside in the dark and wishes he had a joint. 

Evan isn’t answering his texts. 

***

In the morning, he leaves for Evan’s house before breakfast, trusting Zoe to tell their parents where he went. A anxious sense of urgency propels him along the sidewalk; he keeps trying to tell himself that there’s no reason for Evan to lie about going on vacation, that he and Heidi probably had a good time together, that he’s just a little stressed about everything he has to get done now that he’s back. 

When he gets to Evan’s house, he hesitates outside the door. Heidi’s car is in the driveway; that must mean that everything is okay, that Evan is fine. That things are under control. But he knows better than anyone that you can’t just assume someone is okay. So he knocks. 

Heidi is the one to answer the door. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. 

“Connor,” she says. “It’s so nice to see you, sweetie, I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“Yeah, I—I’m not, I didn’t—I just kind of came over. Sorry, I just—” He draws in a deep breath. “Sorry. How was your vacation?”

Heidi’s face changes in a way he can’t really describe. “Vacation?”

“Yeah, Evan said that you guys went on vacation. Um. I don’t know, he wasn’t really clear about—where you went or anything.” He’s grasping at straws. He already knows they didn’t go on vacation, already knows it in his chest. 

“Oh,” Heidi says, and something about the way she says it makes his stomach drop, makes his mind jump to the worst possibility. He knows it’s not likely, that Evan has gotten help, that he has medication and friends and his mom and a therapist, that he’s probably just overwhelmed and stressed out, and yet. And yet. 

It’s not like Connor himself ever threw away those pills.

“I thought he told you,” she says. “He said he told you.”

“Told me what?” 

“I—here, let me step outside with you, just—sorry, honey, I just—Evan’s resting and I don’t want to wake him up.” She steps out onto the porch with Connor and closes the front door behind her. All Connor can think is that _Evan is resting_ means _Evan is alive_. The feeling that he hadn’t even realized he’d lost returns to his hands. 

“Evan hasn’t been doing well,” she says. “It’s just—he’s had a lot on his plate, and he got overwhelmed, and—it was a lot of things, but—” She breaks off, shakes her head. “I don’t know—do you know this? He said he talked about it with you.”

“I—no, he never said anything. I thought—I kind of suspected he wasn’t doing well, recently, but—”

“Since around Halloween,” she says. “It’s been a while. But—last week, when break started, things got really bad, and we had to admit him to a hospital overnight. We didn’t go on _vacation_ , I—” And then she’s looking away, and blinking very hard, and pressing her lips together, and Connor has no idea what to do, no idea how to comfort her. “We didn’t go on vacation,” she repeats, and her voice is shaky. “He just—it’s been bad. He had a panic attack in the middle of the night and ran out of the house—he collapsed in a park and the police didn’t find him until the morning.” She takes a deep shuddering breath. “So I took him to the hospital, they sedated him for a while, and he’s home now. He didn’t tell you any of this?”

Connor’s mouth is very dry; it takes him a while to find the words to say, “No, all he said was that he couldn’t meet up with any of us over break because he was on vacation.”

She nods. Her eyes are very shiny. “I should have known. He—Connor, sweetie, I’m so sorry, I’m sure this isn’t what you expected when you came over—”

“Actually,” Connor says, interrupting her and then feeling bad about it. “He—um, we’re in this group chat together—our friends, sorry—and he sent some weird texts in there about bailing on plans last minute, and some of the details didn’t add up, and—so I came over just—I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

She’s silent for a long, long moment, and then reaches out and clasps one of Connor’s hand in both of hers. Connor, who generally doesn’t like being touched, finds he does not mind this. “Connor,” she says. “I am so glad he has you,” and it’s Connor’s turn to look away and blink hard. “Do you want to come inside? I’ll ask him if he’s up for seeing you.”

Connor nods, and they go inside together. In the living room, he stands awkwardly next to the sofa while she motions for him to wait and goes upstairs. The TV is playing the news at a very low volume; it’s all bad news. 

The silence of the house is oppressive. 

When Heidi comes back down, she has tears on her face, but gestures towards the stairs wordlessly, and pats his shoulder when he walks past her to go up. He feels sick. 

Evan’s room has the curtains drawn; like much of the room’s decoration, they’re blue, and so the daylight coming from outside throws the room into a dream-like blue cast. Evan himself is in bed. He’s so far under the covers that Connor thinks the room is empty at first; he has his back to the door and the blankets thrown over most of his body. 

“Evan,” Connor says into the stillness. His voice comes out muted, miserable. “I—” He doesn’t know what to say. After a minute of pained silence, all he has is, “ _Fuck_.”

Evan stirs and then sits up. It’s hard to see his face because of the dimness of the room, but he looks like he’s been crying. The expression on his face is one Connor knows very well, because he’s seen it in the mirror far too many times to count. 

They look at each other for a long moment, and then Evan says, “D-did my mom—tell you?”

“A little bit. You were in the hospital.”

“Yeah.” Evan shivers, wraps the blankets around himself tighter. “They—yeah.”

Connor points at the desk, and Evan nods. He sits down in the chair, and then says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, “I’m here.”

“No, it’s not, you’re going to—” Evan breaks off, looking miserable. “You’re—you’re going to h-hate me? It was so stupid, I—just my stupid useless brain, it—it’s weird and bad and I—you’re going to hate me, you probably hate me—”

“Hey,” Connor says, and is surprised to find that the tone he uses is the same brisk, firm one Zoe puts on when Connor gets upset; practical and calm and a rock to lean on. He does not feel like that on the inside. “Evan. Listen to me. I don’t hate you, okay? If anyone knows anything about having a stupid useless brain, it’s me. Just tell me what happened, I—not knowing is _worse_ —you don't understand. You weren’t answering your phone, and that stuff in the group chat, I—I started thinking that maybe you—let go again.”

Evan huddles into himself, shakes his head. “It wasn’t that, I just—things were getting so bad again, it—um, I just _broke_ , I—” He sucks in a breath like he’s been drowning. “It was getting so loud in my head? I kept having these panic attacks—um, really bad ones, and one night it was just—just so much—I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—”

Connor holds out one hand in the space between the bed and the desk, and after a minute, Evan reaches out and takes it. His fingers are freezing. 

“You don't need to apologize,” Connor says. “I don’t hate you.”

“You will, you _will_ , I—it was nighttime, and I was just lying there and suddenly I—um, it was like the house was on fire, I was so afraid and I couldn’t _breathe_ and I knew I had to get out—and I just ran, and, and—it was maybe the worst panic attack I've ever had. I just ran out of the house because even the whole house felt too small to be in. Um. I don’t remember what happened, I think I blacked out, I don’t know, I don’t know—they found me in the park, I think I just ran until I collapsed.” His hand curls around Connor’s tightly, and Connor can _feel_ it some place between his ribs, can feel the ache of having been wounded by this boy, the ache of just holding his hand. “I don't know. They took me to the hospital, and—I don’t remember, they sedated me so I wouldn’t panic again—um, it. It was bad. It was bad. I thought I was getting better, I was supposed to be getting better, things were getting better but it just piled up and I kept lying about it, and I didn’t want to _disappoint_ everyone, and—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you probably hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Connor says, but Evan just shakes his head again, repeatedly, miserably, blindly. “Evan. Look at me. I don’t hate you. After all the bad days you’ve seen me have, how could I turn around and hate you when you have one?”

“Because this is _different_ ,” Evan says. He can’t even look at Connor; he’s looking at the floor. His face is screwed up like he’s trying not to cry. “It’s different, I wasn’t—it’s so _stupid_ , I just got overwhelmed, it was those essays and trying to get ready for midterms and college and trying to tell my mom and my therapist about—this summer, I don’t know, it was stuff—I should have been able to deal with it.”

“You don’t have to deal with it,” Connor says. “It’s okay not to be able to deal with it, but Evan—next time _tell_ someone, you just—we would have understood, we could have helped you.”

“I know,” Evan says. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Evan just mumbles something unintelligible in response, and then they sit there together in silence. Downstairs, Heidi clatters the pans in the kitchen. 

“Once someone that I really admire and care about told me that one relapse or outburst doesn’t make you a bad person,” Connor says finally. “And that it doesn’t mean you’re not getting better. And I think about that a lot on my bad days. That just because this day or week is bad, doesn’t mean that it won’t pass. And I know this has been building up for more than a day or a week, but that doesn’t mean it won’t pass either. There are people that care about you, and they’ll still care about you on the bad days.”

Evan finally looks up at him. “Um. I was the one that—I said that?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “And I think you should take your own fucking advice.”

“Sorry—you said—um, you said that it was someone you really admire and care about?”

“Yeah, and I was talking about _you_.” He feels himself going red, but he does his best to ignore that. “It—whatever, what you’ve said to me about having bad days, and trying to forgive myself for it has really helped me. And I don’t think you realize that that stuff applies to you too. You’re allowed to have bad days, or whatever.”

“Oh,” Evan says. “Oh.”

Connor suddenly becomes very aware of the fact that they are holding hands. 

“Does Jared hate me?” Evan blurts out suddenly. “After—I just—does he?”

“He’s hurt, but he doesn’t hate you,” Connor says, weirdly thankful for the distraction. “Do you want me to tell him what happened, or—?”

“Could you?” Evan says, looking pathetically grateful, and everything in Connor’s insides gets all twisted up. “Um. All of them?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell them,” Connor says. “I—whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

“And like—about getting overwhelmed and stuff? If you want to talk about what’s been going on. I’m here.”

Evan huddles up again, bows his head. “I—um, I think I have to like. Work most of it out with myself, and like—my mom, about college and stuff. Whether I'm ready or not.”

“Okay,” Connor says. “Well. The offer still stands, okay?” He squeezes Evan’s hand; Evan flushes, and Connor doesn’t know why. “It’s going to pass. You're not alone in this.”

Evan hunches his shoulders, looks away. “I—um, I didn’t want you to know,” he says finally. “About this. About—you know, the anxiety getting worse or—you know. Like, I—I, um, I knew that you knew about the anxiety, and like—you know I have bad days, but—it was getting so bad? And I thought that if you knew how bad it was getting you—um, you wouldn’t want to be around me. That I would drag you down with me. I thought—” he breaks off and swipes at his eyes with his free hand “Um. That’s why I lied about it, because I didn’t want you to see what it was really like, but—Connor. Thank you. For—for c-coming.”

Connor’s throat is very tight and very painful. There’s something he wants to say that’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t get it out, doesn’t even know what it is. All he knows is that he is heartbroken, sitting here with the broken pieces of his best friend, hoping that they both can heal enough to get through this. 

***

He stays at Evan’s house for the rest of the day; Evan sleeps for most of it, so Connor alternates between sitting at his desk reading through one of his botany books, and sitting downstairs with Heidi awkwardly watching TV. Heidi gets a lot of calls from work, but she keeps declining them. 

“They want me to go back tomorrow,” she says, “but I don’t want to leave him alone. I’m hoping that if I just ignore the calls I can get at least one more day with him.”

Connor frowns. “If you need to go to work, I can come over again tomorrow, if—you know. You’d be okay with it. I mean, he just needs company, right?”

“Oh—honey, that would be great if you could, but I don’t want to put any responsibility on you—don’t feel that you have to offer, really, we’ll manage—”

“I _want_ to,” Connor says fiercely. “Evan’s my friend.”

She’s silent for a moment, and then just pats his hand and says that he’s an angel. When the next call from work comes, she picks up and says she can take a shift tomorrow. 

Connor makes a mental note to see if they have any nature documentaries he can bring from home tomorrow; he thinks Evan might want to watch some. 

***

**[FuckKik has made a group chat with AlanaBeck, TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman, and ZoeLovesJazz]**

**FuckKik:** hey guys

 **FuckKik:** so i went to evans house today and theres something i think u should know

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** that’s not a totally ominous way to start off a sentence at all

 **FuckKik:** ok this is actually serious tho like

 **FuckKik:** evan has been doing rlly badly in terms of mental health for the past month and a half or so

 **AlanaBeck:** I thought he was doing well? I had no idea!

 **FuckKik:** yea i didn’t either 

 **FuckKik:** anyway i went to his house today to check in w him bc he wasn’t answering his phone yesterday and it turns out that he had a mental break or something

 **FuckKik:** idk what to call it, everything kind of added up and he had a panic attack that was really bad and he can’t remember what happened but they found him collapsed in the park in the morning

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** oh my god that’s fuckign awful

 **AlanaBeck:** Is he okay????

 **FuckKik:** they took him to the hospital and he stayed there overnight a couple days ago, he's back at home now but he’s still doing bad. but he’s getting help, and they put him on new medication, and his mom has been home w him. so i guess he’s okay but hes not GOOD

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** omg I feel horrible poor evan….how could we have not known?

 **FuckKik:** he was hiding it, he didn’t want us to know. Idk its a whole thing but he was lying about stuff

 **FuckKik:** i e, going on vacation when rlly he was in the hospital and now can’t leave the house w/o panicking

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** so like when can we go see him 

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** bc i’m putting together a care package as we speak

 **FuckKik:** idk, he’s p overwhelmed rn but i’ll ask him and see

 **FuckKik:** he’s not checking his phone rn but i’m going back there tomorrow while Heidi is at work so he has someone to be w so I'll check then?

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** haha now i feel like shit about what i said last night about him bailing on us :(((

 **AlanaBeck:** I mean, it was a little harsh, but you didn’t know about all of this. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You saw it as someone you cared about ditching you without a good explanation. It’s okay to be hurt by that.

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** u r so wise alana thank u

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** let us all know when we can go see him

 **ZoeLovesJazz:** also: if he’s up for it, maybe we can do secret santa at his house once he’s feeling better? That way he doesn’t have to worry about going out or anything, it can just be a chill thing and he won’t even have to leave the house. 

 **AlanaBeck:** Oohh that’s a good idea!! Please ask him about that, Connor.

 **FuckKik:** ok will do

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** n thanks for checking up on him Murphy. none of the rest of us thought to do that n we should have seen the signs

 **FuckKik:** don’t shit on urself for not thinking of it kleinman. not ur fault. he’s okay now, that’s what matters. 

 **TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me???

 **FuckKik:** don’t get used to it :)

***

**hey I know ur not checking ur phone rn bc its overwhelming**

**but on the off chance u do pick it up for some reason**

**i just wanted to tell u that i’m really sorry for what happened**

**relapsing after getting better for a while is the worst feeling, and i know exactly how discouraging it can be**

**i can’t pretend to know how ur feeling but I just want u to know that you are not alone, that you don’t deserve to struggle alone, and that i’m here for you. I know I told u some of that stuff while I was at ur house today but it bears repeating. I mean it.**

**you’re one of the most important people in my life. you were one of the reasons i decided not to take the pills at the beginning of the school year. if we weren’t friends, i might not be here. So it rlly kills me to see you struggling like this. and I just want to make sure you know how important u are to me bc sometimes people just need to hear that. i know i do.**

**anyway. ur not gonna read this for a while so maybe it doesn’t matter. but i need to tell u just in case.**

**i’m gonna go to bed now. i'll see you tomorrow i guess.**

**good night evan.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand there we go. I listened to words fail a lot when writing this chapter tbh
> 
> -I am going to see deh this Wednesday so if you want to hear me scream about that, my [Tumblr account](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com/) is where the fun will be happening  
> -[this post](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is) would appreciate your reblog  
> -the SICK fuckin jazz piano track in the background of sincerely me??? smash that kudos button if u agree  
> -although I have not been responding to comments with my typical alacrity lately, I would appreciate you leaving one. or two. or several.  
> -that's all, stay safe, love u!


	17. Interlude (Heidi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello!!! I'm sorry this update has taken, like, a month. I am so much busier these days than I used to be, and midterms are coming, and I'm like ahhhhhhhhhh but I promise you that I am NOT giving up on this fic and even if updates are taking longer now, I am still very much invested it in. 
> 
> I am also not replying to comments at the moment for the same reason, but please please know I love all of you that have been commenting, and I live for the ao3 comment notification in my inbox lmaoooo. 
> 
> anyway thank you for being so patient with me, and I hope you guys like this update!!! today's interlude goes to Heidi. let's see what she has to say.

Sometimes Heidi Hansen’s life has felt like it’s been comprised of in between moments, like she’s always waiting for something. Waiting for her shift to end, waiting to get her degree, waiting for a moment when she and Evan can both be home together. Waiting for when life will stop being so rushed all the time. 

Other times, her life feels like it’s trapped in a single moment, where time doesn’t move at all. Where she’s paralyzed in the feeling of helplessness that consumes her far too often these days. 

Getting the call about Evan was one of those moments. 

“We found your son in Greenwich Park,” the police officer said. “He’s on his way to the hospital now.” 

And the world had just. Stopped. 

Heidi had known that Evan wasn’t doing well, but she hadn’t thought it had been that bad. And knowing that it had been that bad is like being trapped in the moment of dying.

After Evan came home from the hospital it all came out: the horrible, horrible truth of Evan’s endless, lonely summer, the overwhelming stress from college applications, the choking guilt of knowing that they can’t pay for college, the paralyzing fear that this is how things will always be. The whispered admission of _not just girls—boys too? I’m sorry, it—I don’t know how to deal with it, I don’t know what to do._ The confession that the pills have not been working. That they haven’t been for a while. 

“I’m broken,” Evan says to her when he’s done crying. “I’m such a mess—only the bad parts of me are left, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—everyone is going to hate me.”

And Heidi doesn’t know how to tell him that the worst of you is still a part of you, that people seeing it isn’t always a bad thing. That no one will hate him for breaking. 

The world is trapped in that moment—time has stopped—and it doesn’t start again until Connor Murphy knocks on her door with paint-chipped nails, smelling of smoke and looking like he hasn’t slept in a week, and says _I just wanted to make sure he’s okay._ And she is reminded that Evan is no longer alone in this. And that means she isn’t either. 

The house, once cavernous, gaping with the weight of the responsibility on her shoulders, no longer feels so large.

“Connor,” she says, “I’m so glad he has you.” 

The look on his face is heartbroken, bewildered, hopeful. He turns his head away and scowls, blinks rapidly. She has never been so grateful for another human being’s existence in her life. 

When he goes home that evening, she goes up to Evan’s room. The blinds are still drawn, but someone has turned the light on, dispelling the dusky gloom that filters in through the blue curtains. 

“Was having Connor come over okay?” She asks. 

Evan sort of nods, sort of shrugs. 

“He’s really something,” she says, and the corner of his mouth jerks up. 

“Yeah,” he says. “He—um. He’s really s-something.”

“You’ll be okay if I go back to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll call me if something’s wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I love you too.”

“I’m proud of you, honey.”

“There’s nothing—there’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Don’t say that,” she says. “You can make it through this, okay? You’ve made it through everything else, right?”

There’s a long silence, and then he nods. 

“Connor will come over tomorrow to keep you company, okay?”

He flushes. “Oh.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“I—yeah, I—it’s just. You know. It’s—I’m. Yeah.”

They look at each other for a minute, and then Evan pulls an embarrassed face and makes an inarticulate gesture, and something clicks. 

“Oh, honey.”

“We don’t have to _talk_ about it—”

“He’s a really nice boy—”

“Mom, _please_ —”

“I think that you two—”

“ _Mom_ ,” Evan says, and she stops. “It’s not—just about that? It’s like. Everything else. I don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s—I don’t know what to do. I don't know what I’m supposed to do, I—I’m not. You know. We’re friends, and so much is happening, and—yeah.”

“I don’t think there’s anything that you’re supposed to do,” she says. “I think sometimes the only thing to do is wait. You have a lot of things going on right now, sweetie, don’t let this be one of the ones you stress out over. If it’s meant to be—”

“Mom—”

“—it’ll take time.”

He sighs. “I just—don’t want to mess things up. Like I always do.”

“He’s a really nice boy,” she repeats. “I don’t think you could if you tried.”

He chews on his lip. Can’t meet her eyes. She has so much to tell him, so much that she doesn’t know how to say. 

The world is turning again, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to live in it. Between breaths, the coldness that had washed over her when she had gotten the call from the police department seeps back into her skin. Every time she sits down for a moment, she is overwhelmed by the thought of having to get Evan new meds, of having to make sure her schedule fits around his therapy appointments. Before she falls asleep at night, she is haunted by her son’s voice saying _you’re going to hate me when I tell you what I did_. She is haunted by _I let go._  

But. The world is turning again, and they have to keep on going. The sun will rise tomorrow. She’ll draw back the curtains. And Evan’s unspoken admission is a welcome reminder that even when you think everything is paralyzed with fear at what’s to come, life will keep moving forward. 

Her son tried to kill himself. 

Her son has a friend who came to make sure he was okay. 

Her son has a crush. 

The world will keep turning. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talking about crushes with your mom is WEIRD and EMBARRASSING also poor heidi this woman is literally an angel


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO trigger warning for discussion of self-harm/kind of a description of a suicide attempt in this chapter??? I promise it's not graphic or anything but better to be safe than sorry. this is actually also a fluffy chapter so don't get discouraged lmao

Connor shows up at Evan’s house the next day with a stack of nature documentaries, some homework, and a pot of soup that Cynthia had insisted he take with him when she heard Evan wasn’t feeling well. He’d been about to explain that it wasn’t that kind of feeling unwell, but then had just accepted the soup without comment because it got him out of the house faster. Zoe offers him her car keys so he doesn’t have to walk in the cold—a gesture whose symbolic significance does not go unappreciated—but Connor thinks it might be good for him to get some fresh air so he declines. 

When he gets to the Hansens’, Heidi’s car is still in the driveway even though she said her shift starts at eight and it’s eight fifteen. She whips the door open right away when he knocks and motions him in hurriedly.

“Is everything okay?” Connor says, apprehensive. “You—sorry, you said you’d be gone by now.”

“I just—” she pulls a face, already shrugging on a jacket. “I couldn’t leave him alone. I meant to leave and I just—couldn’t.”

“But did anything—”

“Nothing happened, sweetie, don’t worry. It’s just—you know, it’s a mom thing. I have to run, okay? He’s upstairs but I’m hoping he’ll get out of bed today, because—you know. Anyway. You kids have fun, okay? You have my number if you need anything.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Thanks. Have a good day at work.”

She smiles at him and then hurries out the door, closing it quietly as possible behind her. He stands there for a moment, staring at the floor blankly, and then goes to put the soup in the fridge before making his way upstairs. 

Evan is sitting on the edge of his unmade bed in pajamas. He’s staring at the pair of socks he’s holding in his hands with an overwhelmed expression. 

“Hey,” Connor says, quietly. 

Evan looks up, and then smiles, very tiredly. Connor has never been so happy to see someone smile in his life. “Hi.”

“How’s today going for you?”

Evan looks back down at the socks. “Um. Poorly?”

“Have you showered?”

“No.”

“You want to go do that?”

Evan flushes. “I—oh, sorry, I—I haven’t for a few days because—s-sorry, I’ve been in bed and I probably look gross and you’re probably grossed out and I'm sorry—”

“It’s nothing like that,” Connor says firmly. “You don’t look gross, okay? It’s just that showering will be good for you because it gets you out of bed and you’ll feel better once you do. It helps get you in a better headspace, trust me.”

It’s something small. Something manageable. Something Evan can get done and feel good about.

“Okay,” Evan says. “Okay.”

He doesn’t get out of the bed. 

“I’ll go downstairs and make coffee.”

“Not supposed to h-have caffeine with the meds.”

“Tea, then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Connor says. “I’ll go make tea, and you go shower, and we’ll meet back in here, okay?”

“Okay,” Evan says. 

Connor goes downstairs, waits until he hears the shower start, and then goes back up to the bedroom to made the bed and pull open the curtains. He’s abruptly reminded of coming back from rehab last year, when things had been really bad. He’d been drugged out of his mind, didn’t want to move or speak or breathe, couldn’t make himself get out of bed. Cynthia and Larry had been content to let him lie in his room in the dark as long as he wasn’t actively trying to kill himself, Zoe had come into his bedroom three days in, pulled him out of bed, dragged him downstairs, and taken him grocery shopping. They hadn’t spoken at all—he’d just followed her around the grocery store in a daze, watching her put bread and milk and fruit in the cart with a weird sense of detachment, like it wasn’t really happening—but he hadn’t gotten back in bed after that, at least. He still doesn’t know why she did it, if it had even been her idea, because they’d never talked about it but—it had helped. Someone forcing him to snap out of it had helped. So maybe it’ll help Evan. 

He goes back down to the kitchen and makes tea—they have a big drawer full of different kinds, most of them decaf—and then brings two steaming mugs upstairs. Evan is sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed and pulling on socks. 

“Hey,” Connor says, holding out the mug of tea to him. Evan takes it and wraps his hands around the warmth. “Feeling any better?”

“A little,” Evan says. “Thanks. For—sorry, the tea, but also everything else.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Connor says firmly. “You’ve done the exact same for me.”

“I—okay.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then says. “Did you, um—did you t-talk with everyone? About—you know, what’s going on? With me?”

“Yeah.” Connor settles down on the desk chair. “They all understand, you don’t need to worry.”

“Even Jared?”

“Especially Jared,” he says. “He wants to send you a care package. So.”

Evan huffs out a little laugh. “They’re too nice,” he says. “I—what I did was bad. Bailing at the last second? And lying, and—you know, everything. It was bad.” He’s not laughing by the time he finishes. 

“They understand,” Connor repeats. “They get it, okay? You didn’t hurt anyone. You got anxious, and you withdrew, and things piled up, and you isolated yourself. That’s not unforgivable.” He frowns when Evan shrugs. “Listen, they said that if you don’t want to leave the house during break, we can meet up here to exchange gifts and stuff. They really want to see you, and like—I don’t know, it might be good to have people over. So you don’t feel like you’re alone. Only if you want, though.”

Evan is silent for a very long time. Then he says, “They want—um, they want to see me?”

Everything in Connor’s chest gets all twisted up. He knows, without Evan having to say it, exactly what Evan is feeling. “Yeah,” he says. “They really want to see you. They want to be sure you’re okay.”

“They’d c-come over—here? So I wouldn’t have to—to go out?”

“Yeah, I—”

“They’d do that?”

“Yeah,” Connor says softly. “They’d do that.”

“I’m really lucky,” Evan says. “I’m really lucky, I’m really—I don’t deserve them, or, or—or you, or—I don’t know what happened, I—only a couple months ago I was eating lunch in the school bathroom because I was so alone? And now you said they’d come over here, and, and, I don’t know what happened, I—” He half-turns his face away, and his shoulders shake, tremendously, but only once. 

“It’s not that you’re lucky,” Connor says fiercely. “It’s what you deserve. We’re here for you because you don’t deserve to be alone. We’re not going to let you disappear, okay? We’re going to keep pulling you back.”

He knows it’s true because Evan—and Zoe, and Alana, and Jared—did the same for him. None of them are alone, and however many times it’s necessary, they will keep pulling each other back.

“Thanks,” Evan says, and his voice is helpless, and Connor is helpless. “Connor, I—thank you.”

And for a second, all Connor can think about is that day when Evan had told him how he really broke his arm, and how Evan had squeezed his shoulders, briefly and awkwardly, and how badly Connor had wanted him to hold on for longer. How badly he wants to touch Evan now, to put his hands on Evan’s shoulders and squeeze, briefly and awkwardly. How badly he wants to lean over and give Evan a hug. To hold on. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he says, his voice rough in his throat. “I— _whatever_.”  
“You only ever say that when you’re pretending not to care,” Evan says. “So that means that—”

“I care,” Connor says. “I care.”

***

  When they go downstairs to eat lunch and watch TV, Evan cheers up visibly—Connor can see why Heidi had been hoping that he’d get out of bed today. They sit on the sofa and put on one of the nature documentaries Connor brought; Connor also gets out his laptop and starts outlining an essay for his English class, but Evan is enthralled. It’s one of the David Attenborough ones that they sometimes show in Bio. 

It’s chillier downstairs than it was in Evan’s bedroom; there’s a struggling space heater plugged in by the TV but Evan, flushing, says that they’re trying to keep the central heating on low to cut down on utility bills. Connor, slightly uncomfortable, says he understands completely, and tries very hard not to seem cold so that Evan won’t feel guilty about it. 

“I’m not even a little cold,” he says after the fifteenth time Evan has apologized for it. “Seriously. Are you cold? You can have my hoodie if you are, that’s how not cold I am.”

“No, no, no, I couldn’t I couldn’t—”

Connor rolls his eyes, shrugs off his hoodie, balls it up, and throws it at Evan. “Shut the fuck up and watch your stupid movie.”

“It’s not _stupid_ , you—” Evan’s voice catches, and he goes very still, his eyes fixated on the place where Connor’s arm is resting on his laptop, palm up. 

Connor, very abruptly, feels naked. He doesn’t need to look down to know what Evan is looking at. A cold, creeping fear flexes its fingers in his ribcage.

He draws his arms close to his chest.

_Disgusting. Attention seeking. Psycho. Fuck up. Freak._

“Connor,” Evan says, and maybe it’s just in his head, but there’s something different about the way he says Connor’s name. 

Connor can’t look him in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It—sorry, I shouldn’t have taken off the hoodie, it freaks people out, I—I know it’s gross or whatever, you don’t have to pretend like—sorry. I don’t know. I—I shouldn’t have taken it off, you probably think I’m a freak, I—”

“ _Connor_ ,” Evan says, and Connor realizes that he was mistaken, and that Evan is saying his name the way he always has, like a compliment and not a curse word.

Connor’s eyes are stinging. He still can’t look at Evan.

“What,” he mutters. His arms are itching. 

Evan reaches out so his hand is in Connor’s line of vision. For a horrible second, Connor thinks that he’s making Connor look at the smooth, unbroken skin of his wrist, and sickness surges up into his throat, but—then he realizes that he’s offering him an anchor like Connor so often does for him, and he takes Evan’s hand. Evan squeezes, hard. 

“I don’t—um, I don’t think you’re a freak,” he says. “I really don’t.”

Connor just shrugs. He still can’t look up. 

“But—Connor, are you still—you know. Cutting.”

For an awful moment, Connor can’t force any words out, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid crying, and then he says, “No, I—I haven’t since last year when I tried to—kill myself. After I—went too deep, it made me sick, I don’t know, I—”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Evan says. “If—you don’t want to? But. I don’t think it’s gross. Or that you’re a freak, or—any of that stuff.”

“I _am_ ,” Connor says. “Doing this to yourself makes you a freak, it—it’s fucked up, you weren’t supposed to see it.”

“It doesn’t make you a freak,” Evan says. “It—um, it makes you a person who’s in a lot of pain who doesn’t know how to d-deal with it in any other way. And, um, Connor? As someone who’s pretty good at hiding the parts of me that I don’t think other people want to see? Hiding that stuff usually doesn’t work out. Not to—sorry, sorry, not to say you should show people if you’re not comfortable. But if you’re hiding it because you think people will think less of you or something—you know. Sorry. I’ll stop talking. Just—I care about you, and it doesn’t make me think less of you, okay?”

Connor swipes at his eyes and nods. 

“Does your family know?”

He nods again, swallows hard, and says, “They found out last year. After I tried to. You know. I mean—when they stitched up my wrists, or whatever. They saw my arms. It was worse back then, too.”

“And you’re not still doing it?”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” Connor says. There are no words for how sick the thought makes him, how vividly it brings back the memories of the warmth running out of his wrists, and how his fingers had twitched, and how the redness— 

Evan squeezes his hand again. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. “Today was supposed to be about you getting better, and I came here and dragged all my fucking shit into it, and—I’m sorry.”

“D-don’t be sorry,” Evan says. “Seriously.”

“No, I—“

“You can’t put your mental illness on hold just because someone else is doing badly,” Evan says. “I—I wish it was like that but it’s—well, it’s not? You don’t need to feel bad.”

“I always feel bad,” Connor says, aiming for a joke and missing slightly. 

Evan laughs half-heartedly. “Yeah. Well. Me too.” He’s silent for a moment, and then says, “I’m glad you’re not doing that anymore. I—I’m. Um. Proud of you.”

Connor feels his eyes well up again, and all the air is sucked out of his lungs, and—whatever. It just hits him, somewhere deep inside where it hurts. _I’m proud of you._

“Oh, I—um, I’m so sorry, I? I didn’t mean to make you c-cry, Connor, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Connor says, and angrily wipes at his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Do you—sorry, I—do you want a hug, or—"

“I’m _fine_.”

Evan pauses for a moment, and then says, “I’m going to give you a hug,” and then leans over and just. Hugs him. And then Connor really is crying, and Evan is saying, “Stop crying stop crying or I’ll cry too,” and his fingertips are curled against the inside of Connor’s arm and they’re not cringing away even though Connor knows that he can feel the scars. And Connor’s head is on his shoulder, and their arms are tangled up together, and Connor didn’t even know how much he wanted this, how much he missed this, this thing he never had. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor says. “I’m really sorry.” And he doesn’t even really know what he’s apologizing for, but Evan mumbles _it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine_ into his shoulder, a warm rushed exhalation of comfort, and Connor squeezes his eyes shut and lets the tears seep into his eyelashes so everything is soft and blurry. 

When they finally pull back, Evan looks like he’s maybe been crying too, but neither of them mention it. They just scrub their hands over their eyes and don’t look at each other for a minute, not so much embarrassed as surprised by their own emotions. Then, after a second, Evan tosses Connor’s hoodie back to him, and says, “If you’re not comfortable without it—sorry, I’ll go get a blanket.”

Connor puts the hoodie back on—he sees Evan glance at his forearms as he does so, and against everything Connor expected, his expression is pained rather than disgusted—and Evan goes upstairs to get a blanket after turning up the space heater. 

And. That’s that. It’s not the end of the world. Connor can remember waiting for Zoe to be done with band practice at the beginning of the school year, how he’d been smoking in a patch of sunlight and feeling the uncomfortable heat through his hoodie. How he’d thought that if he ever took it off—if anyone ever saw—he would be labeled even more of a freak and an outsider than he already was. 

_It doesn’t make you a freak_ , Evan had said, and Connor, slipping a finger under the cuff of his sweatshirt to feel the ridged skin of his wrists, thinks that maybe one day he’ll be able to believe that. 

“Here,” Evan says, throwing a blanket over his head. Connor makes an indignant sound and struggles free. “I think it’s—um, it’s getting warmer down here? Maybe that’s just me?”

“No, it’s definitely getting warmer,” Connor says, and from across the room, Evan smiles at him. 

***

By the time Heidi gets home, Evan is feeling better; he went back to bed in the middle of the afternoon to take a nap and woke up feeling panicky but it passed, and when the garage opens they’re in the living room doing homework together. When Heidi sees them there’s a horrible moment where she looks so pathetically grateful that Connor’s afraid she’s going to cry but then she just comes and gives Evan a hug and whispers that she’s glad he got of bed today. 

“I picked up the new prescription on my way home,” she says, digging in her purse. “You’re only supposed to take these once a day, okay?” She hands Evan a pharmacy bag and he flushes, glancing at Connor. 

“Yeah, I—yeah.” 

“You’re on a second medication?” Connor says awkwardly, mostly because Evan looks uncomfortable and he doesn’t want Evan to think—well, whatever Evan is thinking. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, twisting the hem of his shirt with his free hand. “Third. Um. A third medication, actually?”

“That’s good, though,” Connor says. “You’re getting help.” And he means it, but he also gets why Evan’s uncomfortable with him knowing about it.

There’s a short pause where Evan doesn’t look at either of them, and then Heidi clears her throat and says, “Connor, sweetie, thank you so much for coming over today. It really means the world to me, it really does.”

Evan goes even redder than he’d already been, and Connor quickly says, “Oh, I—it wasn’t—I’m just really glad I got to see Evan, I—”

“Oh, of course,” she says. “I just—I’m very grateful to you, that’s all.”

“Evan’s my friend,” he mutters. “He’d do the same for me. He’s done the same for me.”

He and Evan look at each other from across the room, and for a second, Connor is back in Evan’s arms with tears blurring his vision and Evan’s fingers pressed against the scarred underside of his forearm, and—

His insides have gone all funny, and he’s not sure why. 

“I should probably get going,” he says, taking a step towards the door. “I told my mom I’d be home for dinner, and—yeah.”

“Of course,” Heidi says. “Do you want a ride home?”

“No, it’s okay, I can walk—um, thanks, though.” 

It takes a few more minutes of pleasantries to actually get out the door, but eventually he gets home. Somewhere between leaving the Hansens’ and opening his own front door, all of the energy has drained out of him, and so when he sees Cynthia sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him, he nearly starts crying. He doesn’t have it in him to have a fight right now; everything inside him is empty and hollow and exhausted. 

“Connor, honey,” she begins, and then pauses. “Con, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and then: “No.”

“You were at Evan’s, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s not doing well?”

“No.”

“Sweetie,” she says, and then frowns. “Come sit with me.”

“If you want to yell at me, can you just do it tomorrow, I’m so fucking t—”

“I don’t want to yell at you,” she says. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “You’re like. Sitting at the table waiting for me, that usually means I did something wrong and you’re angry.” But he sits down across from her anyway.

“I’m waiting for my cookies to come out of the oven,” she says slowly. “I—Connor, being angry at you is not my default, okay? You don’t think that, do you?”

“No,” he says, because he doesn’t want to make her upset, and he’s tired, and he really doesn’t want to have a conversation about how being angry was the default for everyone in this house for a really long time and he’s not entirely sure they’re over that yet. 

“That’s good,” she says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it Evan? Is he not—” She pauses, frowns. “Is he struggling with—an illness, too?”

“Yes, Mom, he has a mental illness,” he says tiredly. “Because it’s an actual thing and lots of people have them.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“So he’s not doing well?”

“No.” He draws in a deep breath. “No, he’s not.”

“And you went over there to try and help him today?”

“Just like—to be with him. It helps. Sometimes. To just have someone there that understands.”

“But you wish you could help him more. And it hurts you that you can’t make him better.”

He stares at her. “I—yeah.”

“And now you’re tired and upset and you don’t know why, because it’s not happening to you, it’s happening to him, but—it’s still very hard to see him struggle like that.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I—yeah, that’s exactly it, I—how did you—?”

“It’s understandable to feel like that when someone you care about is in pain,” she says. “It’s very difficult to watch a person you love struggle and know that there’s only so much you can do. You can’t take the pain away. You can’t feel it yourself, even if you’d switch places with them in a second if you could. All you can do is try and be there for them. And it sounds like you’re already doing a good job of that.” She smiles at him and reaches across the table to take his hand. “I’m proud of you, Connor.” There’s something in her voice that’s as tired as Connor feels right now, and in that moment, he understands her perfectly. 

There’s a long silence, and then Connor says. “I—you’re doing a good job of it too, Mom.”

She looks at him, startled. The words hover in the silence like dragonflies, brilliant and unexpected.

“I know you’re trying to be there for me,” he says. “I’m—I’m sorry for all the times I made it seem like I didn’t know that. I do know you’re trying. I’ve always known.”

“Connor,” she says, and then breaks off, looking helpless and confused and horribly grateful, and Connor wonders how many days she has spent feeling like this, wishing she could take the pain away and knowing she never will. Remembers how consuming the fear of Evan letting go again had been, and wonders how long she’s been feeling the same way about him, waking up every morning frozen in terror. 

Remembers the expression of grief on Larry’s face at Thanksgiving, and wonders if his father is caught in that same consuming fear.

“I’ve always known,” he repeats, his chest clenched tight. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t be sorry, Con,” she says. “I love you, you know that? We all love you. We’re all here for you.”

“I love you too.”

The oven beeps, and Cynthia lets out a choked little laugh, and the moment of intimacy abruptly evaporates. Connor turns his face away, blinking hard, and Cynthia stands up to pull the cookies out of the oven and put them on a cooling rack. “They’re gluten-free,” she says, and for once he’s glad to hear it, if only because it’s something normal and comfortable to hear. He’s not sure how many more emotional conversations he can have today. “And they even taste good, too!”

“Wow.”

“I can tell you don’t believe me, but Mrs. Harris gave me the recipe and she swears by it.”

“All right.”

“When they cool off we can have some, and you’ll see—Con, sweetie, is Evan your boyfriend?”

Connor chokes on thin air. “ _What_? I—where would you—why— _what_?”

“I don’t know, you’re just over at his house a lot, and you clearly care a lot about him, and—it just seems like. I don’t know. Maybe the two of you are involved somehow.”

“We’re _friends_ ,” Connor says indignantly. “I can have friends without—we’re just friends. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m dating every boy I spend time with.”

“All right,” she says, but she’s smiling. “I was just asking.”

“Well, don’t _ask_ ,” he says. “I—like, even if I wanted to, he wouldn’t be—whatever. I think he’s straight. So like. There’s no way.”

“But if he _weren’t_ —”

“ _Mom_ ,” he says, and she laughs. 

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” he says, and then adds, “But like. Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“If he weren’t straight.” He looks down at the table, drags his fingernail over the grain of the wood. If he looks up at her he’ll start _blushing_ , and it’ll be a whole _thing_ , and— _whatever_. “Like. I don’t know. He is, though, so it doesn’t matter.”

“He sounds like a lovely boy,” Cynthia says gently. “And he’s very lucky to have you, whether it’s as a friend, or as anything else.”

Connor thinks of Evan squeezing his hand, saying _I’m proud of you_ , and says, “No, I’m the one that’s lucky to have him.”

Cynthia smiles and says, “Well, maybe you’re lucky to have each other.”

Connor thinks that’s truer than she knows. 

***

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** so whats the update my man

**FuckKik:** i’m not ur man, never call me that again

**FuckKik:** evan is doing better, and he’d love to have u guys over for secret santa later in the week

**FuckKik:** he’s very grateful that u want to come over and see him actually he was p pumped about it

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** NICE

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** so like is Friday ok 4 everyone???? 

**FuckKik:** yea it’s good for me

**ZoeLovesJazz:** good for me!!

**AlanaBeck:** That works for me too!

**FuckKik:** ok I’ll confirm it w him when I go over tomorrow, I don’t think he’s answering his phone still

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** does anyone want to add something to the care package???? so far I have: a get well card w a tree on it, a box of chocolate, a fuzzy blanket, a teddy bear that says you’re the best! when u squeeze it, and PRINTOUTS OF MEMES

**FuckKik:** did u really

**FuckKik:** put printouts of memes

**FuckKik:** in the fuckin care package

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** um ofc??? he hasn’t been online AT ALL in like a WEEK!!! think of all the memes he’s missing, this is absolutely essential to give him

**AlanaBeck:** Dear Lord….

**ZoeLovesJazz:** it looks like you have the care package stuff covered Jared….maybe we can all sign the card??

**AlanaBeck:** Oh, that’s a good idea!

**FuckKik:** yea that’s nice

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** say no more

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** alana can i come by ur house tonight so u can sign?? and then i’ll drop the package off at the murphys tomorrow morning so they can sign it n Marilyn Manson can give it to evan

**FuckKik:** pls don’t call me Marilyn Manson, i don’t even like his music???

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** sounds like something someone who likes Marilyn Manson would say

**AlanaBeck:** Yeah, you can come by any time tonight, Jared! I’ll be home all evening.

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** nice see u soon

***

On Friday, everyone shows up at Evan’s house in their pajamas. It was Zoe’s idea; she figured that Evan probably would be in his, and that it might make him less self-conscious about it if they were too. Connor has to give her credit for it, because it’s a really considerate idea, but he also really resents it because now he has to look at Jared in Yoda-patterned pajama pants and a t-shirt that says _wibbly wobbly timey wimey_ , and Connor doesn’t know what that means but he fucking hates it.

When Evan opens the door, he smiles at them and ducks his head and stutters out a greeting and an apology all at once. It’s tense and strange for a minute, because Connor can tell that the others don’t really know what to say, but then Alana—bless her heart—commandeers the situation by sweeping through the door and loudly announcing that she brought _cookies_ and they’re made of _gingerbread_. 

“It’s a time-honored Beck family recipe,” she says. “You guys should feel very honored that I’m sharing them with you.”

Zoe rolls her eyes affectionately and ruffles Evan’s hair; Evan jumps, but only barely. “Hey, Evan,” she says. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” Evan says, looking down. 

“I’m glad you’re doing okay,” she says, in the warm, practical, sincere way that only Zoe has, and he smiles at her. 

There’s a brief moment where Jared and Evan look at each other, Jared still outside on the porch and Evan hovering awkwardly in the doorway, and neither of them say anything, but then Evan blurts out, “Thanks for the care package that was really nice of you I’m sorry for lying and stuff I hope you don’t hate me do you hate me?” all in one breath, and Jared grins. 

“Fuck off, Hansen,” he says. “I don’t hate you. I’m, like—sorry about being a dick. In the groupchat. I didn’t know you were having a hard time or whatever.”

“Yeah, no—I’m sorry, I should have explained, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Jared says firmly. “I’m just like—glad you’re okay, you know? Let’s call it even.” He holds up his hand, and Evan sheepishly high-fives it. “We’re cool, right?”

“Right,” Evan says.

Jared steps around him into the house, and then it’s only Connor and Evan, standing together in the doorway. 

“Hi,” Evan says, awkwardly, breathlessly. 

“Hey,” Connor says. He holds a fist out, and Evan bumps his own against it. “Doing okay?”

“Yeah. I’m—um. Glad you guys are here. I’m glad you’re here.” 

Connor wonders if he imagines the faint stress on _you’re_ , like Evan is glad that _Connor_ , specifically, is here. He’s probably making it up. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad you want us over.”

“Connor,” Evan says, and then breaks off. 

“What?”

“Never mind,” he says, flushing. “I’ll tell you later? Let’s go inside.”

Inside, Jared is on the phone ordering pizza; when Evan protests, saying that he, as the host, should do that, Jared flips him off and orders an extra pizza just to be obnoxious about it. Evan looks annoyed and grateful and not at all anxious, and Connor decides he can forgive Jared for the ridiculous t-shirt after all. 

They eat the gingerbread cookies while they’re waiting for the pizza, because Zoe says life is too short not to eat dessert first, and everyone gets caught up—they haven’t all been in one group together for a bit, and it feels good to get up to date on what everyone’s been up to during their break. Evan doesn’t talk much, even though they’re all there to see him, but no one pressures him to. Connor thinks their friends are maybe the nicest group of people on the planet. He never thought he could have something like this, and he’s willing to bet that Evan never did either. 

After the pizza comes, and they devour it, Alana insists that they start exchanging gifts. 

“It’s totally not in the spirit of Christmas to boss people around, Alana,” Jared says, rolling his eyes, but helps her get the presents out anyway. 

“Okay, so—a refresher for people who don’t know how this works,” Alana says, even though Connor’s fairly sure everyone knows how it works. “You take the present that has your name on it, open it, and then try and guess who bought it for you. Who wants to go first?”

“Me,” says Jared, predictably, and reaches for the box with his name on it.

Connor had spent a lot of time searching the internet for the most obnoxious possible gifts for him, and had fallen into perusal of a few regrettable Reddit threads in the process. It’d taken some work, but eventually he’d found a snapback that said PARTY on it in sparkly gold letters—an accessory so extra that there was no way Jared wouldn’t appreciate it—and a button that said “bullshit” in an automated voice every time you pushed it. He had the feeling he was going to regret purchasing the second one, but—he thinks Jared will like it. 

Jared tears the wrapping paper off like a fucking animal, and instantly dons the snapback. “This is my personality in a hat,” he says. “Glittery, gorgeous, and full of fun. And—oh my god.” He pulls the bullshit button out of the box and instantly slams his hand against it. “I am going to use this _all the time_ , are you _kidding_ me? Every time one of you fuckers lie to me you’re getting bullshitted from now on.”

“Dear God,” Alana says. “I resent whoever bought you that.”

Jared grins wickedly, and presses the button multiple times in rapid succession: _bullshitbullshitbullshitbullshit_. 

“I think this gift was bought by Evan,” he says. “Because only Evan would be foolish enough to give me this kind of power.”

“It wasn’t me,” Evan says instantly. 

“It was _me_ , you _fuck_ ,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. 

Jared emphatically presses the button— _bullshit_ —and then pauses. “Wait, was it really?”

“I’m starting to regret it, but yeah.”

“Holy shit,” Jared says. “You actually do love me after all. Up top, Murphy.”

Connor rolls his eyes again—not without a measure of affection—and high fives him. 

“You’re a fucking enabler,” Zoe says. “It’s my turn.”

Alana shoots Connor a nervous smile across the room and he feels a thrill of affection for her. She and Zoe deserve each other more than two people have ever deserved each other. 

Zoe reaches for the slim package that has her name on it and carefully pulls off the wrapping paper, quietly exclaiming at how pretty it is. “This is— _oh_.” She holds up the guitar strap reverently, her eyes bright. “Oh, wow.”

“That’s one fancy belt,” Jared says, and she shoots him the finger. 

“It’s a guitar strap, you _idiot_ ,” she says. “And it’s _beautiful_ , and I _love_ it—I’m going to say it was Alana?”

Alana beams and reaches across Evan to squeeze her hand. “It was me,” she says. “I’m so glad you like it.”

“I _love_ it,” Zoe repeats. She leans across Evan to kiss Alana on the cheek; Evan pulls a face of comic exasperation and Jared sniggers. 

“Ever the third wheel, Hansen.”

“Oh, sorry, Evan,” Alana says hastily, pulling back. “Shall I go next?”

Connor tosses the package that has her name on it at her. There’s a moment of silence as she peels off the paper, and then the present falls out into her lap, and she lets out a soft exhalation of wonder. Zoe turns bright red and abruptly begins looking anywhere but Alana. 

“What _is_ it?” Jared asks impatiently; Connor sees his finger hovering over the bullshit button, and quickly slaps his hand away. “Fuck off, Murphy.”

“It’s a—Zoe made a—” Alana holds up the gift so they can all see. It’s a blue satin scrapbook entitled _A History of You and Me_. The front cover has a picture of Zoe and Alana laughing—it looks like maybe they’re at one of Zoe’s band concerts—and the edges have been decorated with hearts and roses. “And there are a ton of pictures inside, and notes that we passed in class, and the peer review of her poem that I wrote in Creative Writing, which is how we started talking, and—just.”

“Sorry, it’s kind of lame, I don’t know, I just—I don’t know,” Zoe says, looking more embarrassed than Connor has ever seen her. 

“It’s _not_ lame,” Alana says fiercely. “Zoe, I—this is perfect. _Perfect_.” She’s holding the book almost reverently, like she can’t quite believe she gets to keep it. 

“This is so sickeningly cute that I might have to _die_ ,” Jared says loudly, and slams the button: _bullshit_. “I’m so fucking alone, you guys. Connor, why didn’t you get me a boyfriend for Christmas?”

“If you wanted to date me you could have just _asked_ ,” Connor says, and then has the pleasure of watching Jared choke on his own spit as he denies any attraction to Connor as quickly as humanly possible. For some reason, across the room, Evan blushes furiously.

“No, Zoe, really,” Alana says, refusing to dignify them with a response. “This is more than I could have ever asked for. You’re so—” She breaks off and just smiles at her, and Zoe reaches behind Evan to tangle their fingers together, ducking her head. 

“I—um, I can move,” Evan says, and gets up to come sit next to Connor. 

“Well, I guess that we don’t need Alana to guess who was her secret santa,” Jared says. “Hansen, you next.”

“We don’t need Evan to guess either,” Alana says. “Because _someone_ announced who it was to the _entire_ groupchat.”

“Fuck _off_ , Alana.”

Evan accepts the package that Jared shoves at him, understandably looking a little wary. “Oh,” he says after a second. “Oh, Jared—it’s really nice.”

“Of course it is,” Jared says. “Because I’m the best. Hold it up so everyone can see.”

Evan rolls his eyes and holds up what had been inside the package. It’s a black t-shirt that has drawings of plants on it; underneath the drawings, underlined letters say plants are friends. 

“So everyone knows how much you fucking love trees,” Jared says. His voice is ironic, but his face is anxious as he watches Evan for a reaction. Connor thinks that Jared probably spent a lot of time trying to find something he thought would be perfect for Evan. 

“I love it,” Evan says. “I’m going to go change into it right now, actually? Sorry—if you guys don’t mind waiting, and—“

“Oh my god, just go,” Jared says, but he looks immensely pleased.

As Evan goes to the bathroom to change, Zoe passes Connor the last present. It’s really just a blue envelope decorated with stickers; when he bends it, he can feel something small and hard inside. 

He tears open the envelope, and a sheet of paper falls out first. When he unfolds it, it’s letter that’s been neatly typed up and printed. 

_Dear Connor Murphy,_

_I never thought I’d be writing a letter to you. If you’d told me I’d be addressing one to anyone but myself a few months ago, I wouldn’t have believed you. But that’s part of how much my life has changed in a few months, right? It doesn’t seem to strange to write this to you now._

_I wasn’t sure what to get you when I first pulled your name out of the hat. Nothing I could think of seemed cool or smart or interesting or beautiful enough to give to the coolest, smartest, most interesting and beautiful person I know. And then I thought it might be nice to write you a letter, because that’s how we kind of met. Maybe it’s kind of weird—it’s probably pretty weird!—but nothing else seemed to be able to encompass how much I wanted to say._

_So anyway. I’ve probably told you all of this before. But maybe it’ll be nice to hear it again. I am so, so, so lucky to have met you, Connor. I don’t think you realize how much better my life is with you in it. Everything changed when I started talking to you—isn’t it weird how neither of us realized how much different things would be that first day in the computer lab? Imagine if I had gone to a different lab print my letter. Or if my mom had been able to pick me up on time that day. Or if you didn’t have to wait for Zoe to get out of band practice. So many things could have gone differently, but I got lucky enough that everything went exactly as it did._

_So I guess this is a thank you letter more than anything. Thank you for coming to apologize in the computer lab, because if you hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t have any friends. Thank you for coming to sit with me on my bad days, and for calling to get pizza so I don’t have to. Thank you for watching nature documentaries with me, and helping me with my English homework. Thank you for putting so much work into getting better, because watching you fight so hard to be happy helps me work to fight harder too. Mostly, just thank you for existing. I’m really glad neither of us ended up letting go._

_Sincerely, Me._

_PS: there is an actual gift in the envelope! It’s not much, but I thought maybe you’d like some good vibes to carry with you all the time. I think it’s meant to be put on a chain, but you can just keep it in your pocket or something if you want._

The other object in the envelope is a little charm, the kind that’s meant to be put on a bracelet, or maybe a necklace. 

It’s in the shape of a little silver fist. 

“Holy fuck, Murphy’s crying,” Jared says, at exactly the same time Evan reappears in the doorway wearing Jared’s t-shirt and says, “Oh—you already opened it?”

“I’m not crying,” Connor says crossly, turning his face away from the others and scrubbing at his eyes. “I’m not _crying_ , don’t _look_ at me.”

“Connor,” Zoe says, but Evan beats her to it; he crosses the room in a few quick steps and comes to give Connor a hug from behind, hooking his chin over Connor’s shoulders and wrapping his arms around Connor’s waist. 

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says. “Connor, please don’t—I didn’t mean to make you cry, I’m sorry. Connor. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not _crying_ , my _eyes_ are _watering_ ,” Connor says, but he leans back into Evan anyway. He wipes his eyes again. Feels the coldness of the charm in his closed hand, and squeezes it. 

“I’m sorry,” Evan says. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Connor says, and he’s never meant anything more in his life. 

“What the hell was in that letter?” Jared asks, looking at the pair of them incredulously. “Also, you guys look _so fucking gay_ right now.”

“You’re _literally_ gay,” Connor says. “He just said. That he’s glad I’m here.” And then he looks at the floor very hard as the room is momentarily consumed with the knowledge of how close he came to not being here. He doesn’t know how much Jared and Alana know about last year, but—he’s fairly sure they can guess. 

“Connor,” Zoe says gently. “We’re all glad you’re here.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I was crying.”

There’s a moment of silence as everyone takes that in, and then Evan quietly says, “I thought your eyes were watering,” and everyone erupts into laughter. 

“Fuck off, Hansen,” Connor says, but he doesn’t make a move to get up from Evan’s arms, and Evan doesn’t let go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe this fic is finally getting SOME progression in the romantic storyline??? things will pick up fairly soon I promise I know this has been insanely slow burn rip
> 
> -come join me on [Tumblr](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com) to be up to date on when I will be posting the next chapter  
> -there is a picture of the shirt Jared gave evan in [this post](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is) if you want to see it  
> -the overlapping harmonies at the end of requiem??? smash that kudos button if you agree  
> -comments are always welcome, cherished, and deeply appreciated  
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	19. Interlude (Jared)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellloooo friends!!! it's been a while hasn't it?? I'm sorry for how long this update has taken; I took an unintended hiatus because of school. But I'm on break for the next week and a half, and I fully intend on trying to update more often. 
> 
> also. many apologies for not replying to comments! I can't promise replies to old comments because of how many I have, but any comments left on this update/after I post this will be replied to, I can promise you that. 
> 
> ok!!! onwards and forwards!! per the results of the poll on my Tumblr, this interlude goes to Jared (Evan actually won the poll but he has an important interlude for next update so we're going with the runner up). let's see what he has to say!

Jared Kleinman has not been a very good friend to Evan Hansen in the past. He knows that. But he has spent a great deal of time with him, maybe more than anyone else except for his mom, and as a result of that, he knows him pretty well. He knows that his favorite breakfast is chocolate chip pancakes, and that he hates horror movies, and that he still thinks about that time in the third grade when he left the house in a hurry, and showed up to school in his dinosaur pajamas, and everyone laughed. 

He also knows what it looks like when Evan has a crush. 

Which he does. 

But the list of things Jared knows about Evan also includes this: that he doesn’t always say what he’s feeling, or tell people how poorly he’s doing. That these things are often written on his face instead. And so the list of things Jared knows about Evan now also includes the way his face had tightened when Zoe had said _we’re all glad you’re here_ , and the fact that maybe Evan had come as close to not being there as Connor had. 

And Jared has not been a very good friend to Evan in the past, but that doesn’t mean he can’t start now. 

The last few months have been strange for Jared. The _weirdness_ of having friends—friends who stick with him, friends who care about him, friends who call him out when he’s being a dick but forgive him for it—has mostly worn off, but sometimes it’ll strike him at weird moments, just burst into his head when he’s in the middle of a stupid joke and Connor is rolling his eyes, and Alana is looking at him with exasperation and fondness, and Evan and Zoe are already laughing before he even tells the punchline: _these people like me_. It’s a foreign thought, one he very much enjoys having. 

And he thinks it’s showing, in small, unnoticeable yet concrete ways. He anticipates when the things he says might make Evan uncomfortable, and avoids saying them. He only cracks jokes about people when he thinks they’ll be okay with it. He looks forward to going to school in the morning, because he knows there’ll be people there waiting to listen to him, people who are looking forward to seeing him, people who will laugh at the things he says rather than at him. 

So he’s happy now. He doesn’t think he realized how unhappy he’d been before. 

So maybe that’s the reason he has the courage to go up to Evan when everyone’s getting ready to leave the Secret Santa party and say, “Acorn boy.”

Evan looks at him. He’s wearing the stupid t-shirt Jared had bought him that Jared’s still so stupidly proud of finding, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a really long time, and he looks really happy. “Yeah?”

“Listen.” And then Jared can’t quite find the words for a second, and there’s a weird awkward silence, and then he says, “You know what you guys were saying about Murphy? Like that you’re glad he’s here or whatever?”

“Yeah,” Evan says. He furrows his brows, chews on his thumbnail, shifts where he stands. 

“You know we all think that shit about you too, right? Like we’re all glad you’re here, too? Cause I think—like. You’re not doing so great. And I just wanted to be sure that you’re not planning—“ He hesitates, lets out a long breath. “You know. Anything.”

“Oh,” Evan says. “Oh. Jared, I—sorry, I didn’t—I’m really not? Sorry, that’s—I’m not there, I’m not thinking about that anymore, I—”

And then he very abruptly stops talking, and Jared just absorbs the _anymore_. 

“Okay,” he says, very calmly. “I just wanted to, like, check up on you or whatever, cause, uh. You—you know you can talk to me if you need to, right?” The words don’t feel natural or casual or anything but stilted coming out of his mouth, but they do feel necessary. “I know I was a dick in the groupchat, but—you know. Just explain stuff to me if you have to.”

“Yeah,” Evan says, very shakily. “Thanks, Jared. I’m—I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know, sorry.”

There’s a long moment where they look at each other in the half-lit hallway, listening to the others put on their coats and shoes in the next room, and Jared can’t help but think how far they’ve come, how he wouldn’t sign Evan’s cast on the first day of school, how he would fight their other friends for the chance to be the first to do it now. 

But what he says is, “Hey, while we’re talking, though—what about Murphy?”

“Which one?” Evan says, and Jared rolls his eyes. 

“I only ever call one of them Murphy,” he says. “Don’t deny you have a massive, obvious, gay-ass crush on him.”

Evan chokes on thin air. “Sorry, what?”

Jared grins and clears his throat. “I _said_ , you have a _huge fucking crush_ on _Connor M_ —”

“Shut up!” Evan hisses. “No, I don’t, shut up.”

“An _enormous, homosexual, all-consuming crush_ on—”

“Jared—stop, he might hear you and then it’ll be weird, and—I don’t have a crush on him, okay?”

“Connor gave me too much power,” Jared says with a grin, and then slams his fist against his button: _bullshit bullshit bullshit._  

“Jared, it’s—it’s not like that, I—”

“Oh, sure—I, too, platonically hug my friends from behind for unnecessarily extended periods of time just because the two of us are _really good buddies._ ”

“He was crying?”

“His eyes were watering,” Jared says mockingly. “Just two guys bein’ dudes, y’know? Just two dudes bein’ guys. Super, _super_ platonic.”

“ _Jared_ ,” Evan says forcefully, but even in the dim light he’s red, and he looks flustered. 

Jared grins. “Why would I make this up? It’s not like I want to be fifth-wheeling.” Evan opens his mouth to protest, and Jared holds up his hands. “No, shut up. I fully support the two of you, but I have to be the first to know when it happens, okay? _No_ , shut _up_. I get dibs on having that knowledge first. Also, like, congrats on being a gay, that makes five of us now. Okay. I have to get going for real now. You’ll tell me if you need to talk about stuff or whatever, right?”

“Yeah,” Evan says, sounding bewildered. “I—yeah.”

“Okay,” Jared says. “Enjoy the t-shirt, acorn boy. Feel better, or whatever.”

He goes to put on his shoes, and brushes past Connor, who’s going back into the house to say goodbye to Evan, as he does. 

“You good, Murphy?” he says. 

“All good,” Connor says. Jared holds out his hand for a high five, and Connor slaps it. Evan’s letter is hanging out of the pocket of his jacket. 

“See you later, man,” Jared says, throwing up two peace signs as he walks out the door. His mom’s car is waiting for him at the curb. 

When he looks back at the open door of the house, he can see Connor and Evan talking to each other, oblivious of the outside world. A tiny bubble of happiness wells up in his chest, and he recognizes it as the particular joy of seeing someone you care about succeed. He finds himself hoping they realize how ridiculously good for each other they are.

“Did you have a good time, sweetie?” his mother asks as he pulls the car door shut, startling him out of his reverie. 

“Yeah,” Jared says. “I really did.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what up I'm jared I'm 17 and I'm finally learning to express my emotions in ways that do not involve mean spirited jokes or memes. now click that next chapter button and see what connor's up to!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just realized that this also happens to be mike faist's birthday? hap bday to our good thot mike. this chapter is dedicated to him.

Two days before Christmas, Connor wakes up feeling blank and just—off. He’s supposed to go to the Hansens’ to keep Evan company today, and the moment he remembers this fact in the morning, he’s filled with an exhausted sort of dread. It’s just—he doesn’t have the emotional energy to take care of Evan and be positive and be someone’s rock today. He wants to get back into bed and go back to sleep and not wake up until this mood has passed and he can, like, have emotions about things. 

His first thought is to swing his feet out of bed and get up anyway; he owes Evan the effort, and life can’t just stop moving because he wants to, and it would be selfish and indulgent to stay in bed when his friend needs him. 

And then his second thought is Evan saying y _ou can’t put your mental illness on hold just because someone else is doing badly_ , and Zoe saying _I feel like you feel like you’re alone in this, and you don’t have to be_ , and he comes to the abrupt realization that if he goes to Evan’s house like this, he won’t be able to help him at all. He’ll snap or have an outburst or just fucking space out, and Evan might get even worse, and it’ll be terrible for both of them. What Connor needs today is to give himself a break. 

“Zoe,” he shouts without getting out of bed. There’s no reply. “Zoe!”

He hears a groan through the wall they share, and then she appears in his doorway a few minutes later, squinting aggressively through a curtain of tangled hair. “ _What_?”

“Will you go to Evan’s house today to keep him company?”

“I thought you were going?”

“Yeah, I—like. I was.”

“But?” 

“I just—today’s not a good day, and I’m scared I’ll make things worse for both of us if I go. I—sorry. I don’t think—it’s just not a good day.”

She’s instantly alert, pushing her hair out of her face and frowning, and he’s never loved anyone as much as he loves her in that moment. “Not a good day, like, _I need to lie in bed and watch Netflix,_ not a good day or, _I shouldn’t be alone because I have a history of being self-destructive when I’m left to my own devices,_ not a good day? Because I can text Alana and get her to go to Evan’s, and then spend the day with you if you need it.”

“The first one,” he says, as reassuringly as he can. “It’s seriously not that bad, Zo. I just—I want to be able to help him as much as I can, and I don’t think I can do that today.”

“Okay,” she says. “But, like. I can just stay and watch Netflix with you, too. If you want that.”

“I’ll be fine. Seriously.”

“Okay,” she repeats. “Text me if you need me to come home, though, okay? Mom’s going to be gone all day, so it’ll just be you and Dad, and—you know. If it gets to be too much, just let me know.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks so much, Zoe. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one at this point, Connor,” she says drily, and he rolls his eyes. “Make sure you get out of bed and eat something and shower or whatever, okay? If you just lie in bed all day you’ll end up feeling worse.”

“Yeah. I will.”

“Okay. See you later, I’m going to go get changed and go.” 

Despite her advice, he stays in bed as long as he can, mostly because he doesn’t want to deal with Larry. Eventually the need to pee drives him into the bathroom, and he takes the opportunity to shower as well. After that there’s no real point in going back to bed, and so he takes his meds and decides to brave his father’s scrutiny and go downstairs to eat. 

Larry is watching a Tarentino movie in the living room when he goes down; Connor mumbles a _good morning_ that he either doesn’t hear or doesn’t acknowledge, and slinks into the kitchen to eat some fruit as quietly as possible so he doesn’t have to engage in conversation before returning to his bedroom. 

There is, however, no such luck, because Connor lives the opposite of a charmed life. A cursed life, maybe, although he can hear Alana’s voice in his head sensibly telling him he’s being dramatic. 

“Have you seen this movie?” Larry asks. 

“What is it?”

“ _Inglourious Basterds_.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come watch it with me; it’s only just started.”

Connor stares at him, stricken, but he seems to be serious, so Connor takes his fruit and cautiously enters the living room. 

“Do you want a real breakfast?” Larry asks, frowning at his plate. “I think there’s bacon in the fridge, and I could make some coffee.”

“It’s okay,” Connor says. “I just need something to wash down the meds. Not supposed to have them on a empty stomach, or whatever.”

“Ah.” Larry looks briefly uncomfortable, and then says, “Well, let me know if you want anything.”

And Connor really does appreciate the effort, despite how forced it is, and despite how uncertain his father is. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence for another hour after that, and it’s not much, but it’s probably the longest amount they’ve voluntarily spent together in a long while, so it’s something. Connor gets really into the movie, too; he’s surprised by his father’s good taste. At some point he asks about one of the actors, and they pause the movie to look up the cast, and it feels nice and normal, and like something normal kids do with their normal fathers. He realizes that his bar is so low that it’s laughable, but at least it’s being cleared. 

When it’s done, Larry asks if he liked it, and Connor says he did. 

“It’s my favorite Tarentino movie,” Larry says, and Connor feels like he’s passed some sort of test. “Have you seen many of his films?”

“Not really.”

“We should watch some more of them,” Larry says. “Maybe Zoe could watch them with us? It might be a fun thing to do while you kids are off of school.”

Connor hasn’t heard his father sound so unsure in a long time. “I’d really like that,” he says, and Larry looks satisfied. 

They watch the credits roll in silence for a minute, and then Larry says, “Connor,” and Connor knows just from the tone of his voice that he’s not going to like whatever follows. 

“Yeah?”

“I just—” Larry clears his throat, frowns at the screen. “I wanted to tell you. That I’m. Very proud of you. And I know that it must not always seem like that, and I understand that we’ve had our differences, and you must harbor some resentment for the way I’ve treated your particular—problems—but there has never been a time where I have—not been very glad that you are here.”

“I . . .” Connor opens his mouth. Shuts it. Can’t bring himself to look at Larry. “Dad.”

Larry makes a repressive gesture. “I know you probably don’t know what to say, and you don’t have to. I just feel that sometimes these things get lost in all the—all the fighting, and the semantics, and the details, and such. And I thought that you could use the reminder today.” He’s visibly uncomfortable, and he can’t meet Connor’s eyes, and if you had told Connor a year ago that he would be sitting here listening to Larry say these sorts of things, he would have laughed in your face. So. 

“Thanks, Dad,” he says quietly. And there’s nothing else they really have to say to each other, so Larry goes to his study, and Connor goes to his room, and they keep out of each other’s way for the rest of the day. But it’s something, it’s something.

Right around the time things got really bad, Larry bought Connor a baseball glove one day for no reason at all. He’d left it outside Connor’s door like a peace offering, a silent invitation to come to his study and drag him outside. Maybe he’d thought they could play catch and talk things out; maybe he was just trying to get Connor out of the house more. Either way, Connor had taken it to the garage and left it on the shelf somewhere along with the rest of his long-abandoned Little League gear. He and Larry had never talked about it, had never even acknowledged it, not even once during their countless screaming matches where they accused each other of every crime on the planet. And weirdly enough, when he thinks about where he’d gone wrong with Larry, that moment always jumps out at him. Maybe Larry had been wrong not to do more, not to reach out more obviously, but he’d been making the best effort he knew how at the time, and Connor had rejected him. 

And Connor hadn’t rejected him this time. And it’s not often in life that you get do-overs, but this feels like one of them. 

He feels better than he had when he’d woken up. It’s _something_. 

***

Christmas morning dawns in a rosy burst of color, and Connor is awake to see it. He’s not sure why he wakes up so early, only that his eyes just open at some point, and he doesn’t feel the leaden desire to slip back into sleep for as long as possible. Instead, he watches the pink light crawl across the ceiling of his bedroom, listening to the soft sounds of the house before anyone gets up, and enjoying the cool lightness in his chest. It’s a good day, he can feel that already. What’s that thing that Evan’s supposed to put in his therapy letters? _Today’s going to be a good day, and here’s why._ Well, today’s going to be a good day because there’s no numbness, no irritation, no heaviness in his chest. It’s Christmas, and he feels good, and maybe they can have a nice, normal holiday without any of ugly fights that have haunted their past few Christmases. 

When the sun is properly up, he gets up and showers, takes his time because no one is awake to yell at him about using up all the hot water. Then he gets dressed and takes off his nail polish, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor with a pile of cotton balls and a bottle of acetone, watching the blackness come off in layers. His nails are kind of stained underneath; he doesn’t remember the last time he took off all the polish in one go. 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door, and he jumps a little before calling, “You can come in!”

Zoe opens the door and frowns when she sees him. “Why are you taking it off? Also don’t close the door when you do that; the acetone fumes kill your brain cells or something.”

“I’m going to put it back on in a minute,” he says, “I just want to start over; the chips and stuff were really bothering me.”

“A fresh start,” she says with a snort. “Very symbolic. You mind if I get ready in here?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

He repaints his nails with his back against the wall as she sets up an improbable amount of bottles and tubes on the counter and begins an elaborate skincare routine. 

“Why are you up so early?” he asks after a bit, blowing on the nails of his right hand. 

“It’s _Christmas_ , I’m _excited_ ,” she says, as if this should be obvious, as if their past Christmases have not been tense and awkward and passive aggressive. 

“Right,” he says. 

“Why are _you_ up so early?”

“I just woke up and didn’t want to go back to sleep. Do you really do all that skin stuff every morning?”

“No,” she says. “I just wanted to do the whole thing today because I wanted to treat myself. Again, it’s _Christmas_.”

“Right,” he repeats, and she rolls her eyes. 

“If you behave there aren’t going to be any problems, you asshole.”

“Okay, _listen_ —”

“And if Dad behaves, or whatever, but—come on. You really don’t think this year will be any different? Look how—”

“—far I’ve come, yeah, yeah.”

“I was going to say how far _we’ve_ come,” she says, “but yeah, you can take all the credit for yourself if you want.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He starts painting the nails of his left hand very carefully; it’s always harder to do with his non dominant hand. He has a vivid memory of ruining his left hand three times in a row at some point right when he had started painting his nails, and getting so frustrated that he had thrown the bottle into the wall, where it had smashed. He’s not sure when they’d gotten that wall repainted; maybe sometime during his rehab stint. Either way, at some point he’d looked at his bedroom wall and there had been no more black smears on it, and that had been that. 

“Do you want help with that?” Zoe asks, glancing down. She’s rubbing some kind of oil into her face. 

“No? I’ve been doing this on my own for, like, a billion years?”

“Okay, jeez,” she says. “Just because you’ve _been_ doing it alone doesn’t mean you have to _keep_ doing it alone.”

“This nail painting thing has become too heavy-handed of a metaphor,” he says. “Sometimes painted nails are just painted nails.”

“And not an outwards manifestation of your teenage angst? Got it.”

He very carefully flips her off, and she sticks her tongue out at him. And then they grin to themselves without looking at each other. And it’s nice, and it’s normal, and he loves that he and Zoe are doing this now. This is so new and yet so familiar—he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed having a sister until he’d already found himself slipping back into the teasing back-and-forth banter they used to share. 

Eventually, their parents get up, and everyone goes downstairs to open presents. As always, Connor had agonized over what to buy everyone—unlike previous years, though, he hadn’t just given up and gotten whatever because he assumed they wouldn’t like it no matter what he got. 

Cynthia loves the scarf he bought for her; she spends a long time with it spread out on her hands, reading the positive affirmations and smiling to herself. Watching her makes something warm and bright stretch its fingers out into Connor’s chest— _he_ did that. He made her smile like that. He’s spent so long thinking _loser, burden, worthless, freak, look what you did, look how you made her cry._

“Here,” Zoe says, abruptly and eagerly shoving a present at him. She looks nervous, excited. He doesn’t think they’d even bought each other anything last year, and now she’s thrusting a carefully wrapped package at him like she can’t wait to see his reaction. 

“Oh,” he says. “I—thanks, here, take yours.”

She takes his gift and lays into the paper like they’re six, and all that matters is seeing who can get the wrapping off faster. Before he can even finish unwrapping hers, she’s already pulling his present out of the box and saying, “ _Connor_ , these are so _cool_ , oh my _god_.”

He’d bought her new headphones—not really nice ones, because he doesn’t have that kind of money, but ones that will at least be an improvement from the shitty earbuds she’s currently using. 

“These are seriously so cool,” she says, looking up at him with a smile. “I actually was thinking of buying these exact ones for myself a while ago.” Which probably isn’t true, but it’s nice of her to say so. When he makes a pained, awkward face instead of saying _you’re welcome_ like a normal person, she rolls her eyes and adds, “Just finish opening yours, oh my god.”

He pulls off the rest of the wrapping paper and uncovers a leather-bound notebook and that has a brush-tipped pen taped to the cover. 

“Because you used to draw a lot?” Zoe says quickly, like she wants to explain before he can think it’s stupid or something. “And I never see you doing it anymore, and I thought maybe if you had nice stuff to draw with it might be, like, inspiring or whatever. Just like. You were really good at it.”

It’s true; he did used to draw a lot. He took a bunch of art classes in middle school; he even got something put up in a district art show once. And then he’d stopped caring, and decided drawing was shitty and stupid and pointless, just like everything was shitty and stupid and pointless, and gave it up. But—he kind of misses it, in the back of his head, misses having something that he really liked and was really good at. Misses being able to hold up something concrete and say, _see, this is good. I made this, and even if I can’t do anything else, I can do this._ He remembers drawing something for Bio during the first lab he, Alana, and Evan had done together, and the feeling of uncertain gratitude he’d had when they had said it was good. 

They don’t have any of his old drawings hanging up in the house anywhere; Connor doesn’t know what happened to them. He’s surprised Zoe even remembers that he’d liked it. 

“Sorry,” Zoe says, really quietly. “Do you. Um. Do you not like it, or—”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I—sorry, I really love it, I just—I don’t know what to say, it’s really nice, I can’t believe you thought of something like this, I—” He breaks off, turns the notebook over and over in his hands. The leather is smooth and cool against his skin. “Thanks, Zoe. I—thanks.”

She smiles at him, and he smiles back, and it’s good, it’s enough. 

And then he remembers that he hasn’t given Larry his gift yet, and turns around to see an empty chair. 

“Where did he—”

“He just ran upstairs for a minute,” Cynthia says, smiling. “He’ll be right back down.” She’s put on the scarf that Connor gave her; she looks nice in pink. 

Sure enough, Larry comes back downstairs and sits back down. He’s a little red in the face, like he’d been lifting something heavy. 

“Dad,” Connor says, and then tosses him his present. Larry looks at him for a second, and then unwraps it, although it’s obvious what it is even through the wrapping paper—a round, baseball sized object can only be so many things. 

Larry looks at it for a second, and then looks at Connor. For a moment, Connor’s afraid he doesn’t get it, that he just thinks Connor got him a baseball for whatever reason, and then something in his expression changes, and he says, “Maybe when it gets warmer we can have a game of catch outside.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Connor says, and that is that. 

“Tell Connor about his present, Larry,” Cynthia says. 

Larry nods and clears his throat, touches her on the shoulder. She looks proud, glowing. “We’ve decided to put your bedroom door back on. We all feel you’ve come very far since—last year, and it’s about time we demonstrated some trust in you in return. So. I’ve put the door back on the hinges, just now when I went upstairs, and—we hope you’ll use that privacy to—keep recovering, and not—anything else.”

They can’t talk about it, they don’t talk about it, they don’t know how. But Connor appreciates that they’re trying. And Cynthia looks so proud, like she thinks this will fix everything, and even Larry looks grudgingly happy, and something inside him clenches up in fear of disappointing them, of not being able to help himself, of losing control again, locking the door and slashing open—and then it passes, and he untenses and smiles and awkwardly thanks them, and they go to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. 

As they make breakfast, they talk about old Christmas family stories, and it escapes no one that they’re all from when Connor was really little, before things went bad, but at least they’re talking. Maybe one day, today will be a happy story they tell, years from now when everything is better, and they’re talking about how they got there. 

***

The first time Connor goes upstairs to put the books Cynthia had bought him in his room—Hemingway novels, mostly, although he doesn’t know how she found out he likes Hemingway—he closes the door behind him. For a second, nothing feels different, it’s just a room with a closed door, and then. 

And then he’s overcome by a wave of sickening claustrophobia, the sensation that the walls are closing in one him, and his head is filled with white noise, and his arms are itching itching itching—he scrubs them against his sides and half-expects to feel the wetness of blood—

Because the last time he’d been in here with the door closed was also the last time he’d decided to roll up his sleeves and take out a razor blade, and for a long, endless minute, he’s _right there_ , he’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the closed door trying to fight down the nausea to cut deep enough, he’s right there and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. 

And then he swallows hard and gets up, stumbles to the door, and opens it a crack, feeling the claustrophobia subside as he does. And just stands there with his head pressed against the wall next to the open door, waiting for the white noise to go away, waiting for his arms to stop itching, resisting the inexplicable urge to punch something. After a moment, the sensations fade, and the silence of the empty room is broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing. When he looks down, there’s no blood on his hoodie; he had unconsciously rolled up his sleeves, though, and there are pink marks from where he’d compulsively scratched at his arms with his nails. That’s okay. They’ll fade in a minute. 

He stands there for another moment, feeling the beginnings of a headache build behind his eyes, and then continues putting the books on his shelves. When he’s done, he makes a note in his phone to talk about it with Dr. Lee. Until then, he’ll keep his door open a crack. 

***

**[AlanaBeck has changed the chat name to: Merry Christmas!]**

**AlanaBeck:** Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you are all having a wonderful holiday :)

**[TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman has changed the chat name to: Merry Chrysler!]**

**EvanHansen:** Jared what’s Merry Chrysler?

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** jfc evan have u ever seen a vine in ur life

**EvanHansen:** Not really…

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** so that means

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** that all the vine compilations I’ve sent u

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** u never watched theM??????

**EvanHansen:** ….

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** hey guys it was nice knowing u! The next time u see me I might be speaking thru jail cell bars bc i’m driving to Evans house to kill him right the fuck now!

**[AlanaBeck has changed the chat name to: Merry Christmas!]**

**[FuckKik has changed the chat name to: death penalty for Jared!!!!]**

**[AlanaBeck has changed the chat name to: Merry Christmas!]**

**[ZoeLovesJazz has changed the chat name to: Happy Crisis!]**

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** see now clearly zoe has seen her classic vines. zoe my good bitch I love u

**AlanaBeck:** I give up. Is everyone having a good Christmas at least?  
**EvanHansen:** We don’t really celebrate it that much, but my mom and I are watching Christmas movies! We made pancakes too!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** aww so cute!! We actually had a nice Christmas over here in Murphyland lol. Connor got his door back that was unexpected but cool

**AlanaBeck:** Oh, congrats, Connor!

**FuckKik:** yeah thanks

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** using that privacy to jack off lol right murphy???

**[FuckKik has removed TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman from the chat]**

**[AlanaBeck has added TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman to the chat]**

**AlanaBeck:** Well, my Christmas present to myself was submitting all of my college applications this morning!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** omg congrats congrats!! How does it feel to be free??

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** ok how is that a present to urself

**AlanaBeck:** Thanks Zoe! It feels really good. 

**AlanaBeck:** It’s a present because I decided I was going to stop worrying about it and obsessing over making them perfect when I knew they were as good as they were going to get, and just submit them as they were. It was really scary at first, but I feel really good about it now. I’ll be able to put my time into something less stressful and more enjoyable now!

**EvanHansen:** Omg Alana that’s really great! I’m really proud of you :)

**EvanHansen:** Especially as someone who tends to obsess over trying to make things perfect myself. I know it takes a lot to fight down the urge to keep worrying about it and just let it go!!

**EvanHansen:** Sorry!! Not to make it about me!! sorry!! Just wanted to show that I understand how big of a deal that must have been for you!!

**AlanaBeck:** Don’t worry about it, Evan, I understand!! Thank you so much!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** tfw u have nooooo idea where u wanna go what u wanna do or how ur gonna finish ur apps in time lmaoooo

**ZoeLovesJazz:** evan: sorry I don’t want to make this about me even though what I have to say is relevant and helpful!! Jared: this has nothing to do with me but also This Is ExClusively About ME

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman** : everything is about me shut up Zoe

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** nice meme format tho!

**FuckKik:** it’s ok jared lol i’m not even gonna get in anywhere

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** oh hey thats true!!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** u always make me feel so good about myself

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** OK I’M KIDDING DONT KICK ME OUT OF THE GROUPCHAT AGAIN PLS

**EvanHansen:** You’ll get in somewhere, Connor!

**EvanHansen:** While we’re talking about college apps thoough, I’ve decided I’m just going to do community college next year

**AlanaBeck:** Weren’t you working on other apps, though?

**EvanHansen:** Yeah, I was! After what happened last week my mom and I talked and decided it’ll be better for me to stay at home for another year. I’ll probably get a job so I can help pay tuition when I go to a real university, too, because I really fell behind on those scholarship essays this year. 

**AlanaBeck:** That sounds like a really sensible, well thought-out plan, Evan, that’s great!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** Yeah that sounds really practical! If you feel more comfortable staying at home next year you should definitely do that :)

**FuckKik:** i’ll probably do community college next year too, bc as i mentioned before, i’m not getting in anywhere else

**FuckKik:** maybe we can take classes together or smthng

**EvanHansen:** Yeah, that would be fun!

**TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman:** get a room u 2  >:D

**FuckKik:** i hate that fucking face wtf

**[TheInsanelyCoolJaredKleinman has changed the chat name to: >:D]**

**FuckKik:** thanks, i hate it

**TheInsanelyCoolKleinman:** Merry Christmas Connor >:D

***

Connor doesn’t see Evan until the thirtieth; Heidi decides she can afford to take a few days off in between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and Evan is spending all the time he can with her. It looks like they’re having fun, at least; Evan sends Connor a picture of tacos that they made together, and of Heidi on the ground making a snow angel. They’re the kind of normal family things that the Murphys still haven’t found it in themselves to be able to do. Maybe at some point in his life Connor would have been envious, but he’s not so sure the Hansens have it any better—Heidi has so little time to actually relax and do things at home. His family’s getting better about being around each other, anyway, so he can’t really complain. 

On the thirtieth, Heidi gets an emergency call into work and has to go work a shift during the day. Evan says that he doesn’t need anyone to sit with him anymore, but he wants to see Connor anyway—a sentiment that, like so many of the other things that are now normal in Connor’s life, no one would have expressed a year ago—and so Connor walks to the Hansens’ house in the bitter cold, cursing into the wind in little puffs of frozen breath. 

“We’re not doing anything that involves being outside,” he says when Evan opens the door, at the exact same time that Evan greets him with, “We should definitely try to build a snowman.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Connor says, “If you make me hot chocolate first we can build a snowman.” 

Evan beams at him, and they go inside. As Evan heats up milk, they catch each other up on the past few days, even though not much has happened; Evan found a new band that he likes, Connor read _The Sun Also Rises_. Connor almost tells Evan about the horrible flashbacks he gets when he closes his bedroom door, and then decides against it; he’s been keeping the door a crack open at all times and so he hasn’t had an episode since Christmas. Anyway, Connor can tell that Evan’s happy about spending so much time with his mom, and he doesn’t want to spoil that. They should be able to spend New Year’s Eve together, and it’ll be the first time in many years Heidi will usher in the new year at home. 

And then just as he’s warmed up properly, Evan drags him outside, and they begin the laborious process of building a snowman. Connor doesn’t remember the last time he made one; probably the last winter where his relationship with Zoe was something approaching normal. Evan says he tries to make one every year. He doesn’t say why, but Connor’s charmed by it anyway. 

“What were you doing this time last year?” Evan asks as they pack snow together for the midriff. It’s such an unexpected question that Connor is silent until they’re rolling a basketball-sized snowball across the yard. Evan doesn’t prompt him to respond, just glances at him like he’s checking to see if Connor’s okay. 

“I don’t know,” Connor says finally, and it’s mostly true. “I guess just—existing. Thinking about how much I didn’t want to go back to school. Fighting with Zoe and Larry and stuff. Getting high in my car because it was too cold to smoke outside.”

“Oh,” Evan says. 

“Why?”

“I feel like,” Evan says, and then pauses, frowns. “Sorry—um. Sorry if this is really weird. I just feel like you’ve changed a lot since we’ve met? Like when I think back to the first day of school and stuff? So, um—I never really knew you before. I don’t know, it’s weird, it’s stupid, I’m just curious about. What you were like.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to know me before,” Connor says. “It was really bad.”

“I’m sure—”

“No,” he says firmly. “It was really bad. I threatened to kill Zoe. I—I might have—or at least really hurt her—if her door hadn’t been locked. I could be really awful when it got really bad, and I wasn’t getting the help I needed, and just—you know. I’m glad things aren’t like that anymore.”

“Me too,” Evan says, and Connor gets the feeling he’s not just talking about the way Connor had been. 

“What were you doing this time last year?”

Evan frowns; they heave the second ball on top of the first. It’s a pretty big snowman; they’ll have to reach up to get the head on. “I—just existing?” He laughs, the nervous laugh that’s more of a tic than a real laugh. “I was waiting for my SAT score to come out, I was worried about that. Just. Being lonely.” He very purposely is not looking at Connor. “I don’t know, it—um, it was bad. Sorry. In a different way than it was for you, but—um. Still bad.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. There’s a pause, and then, more for the sake of lightening the mood than anything else, he adds, “If you say something about how far we’ve come I’ll have to kill you, just so you know.”

Evan instantly grins. “I mean—look how far—”

Before he even opens his mouth Connor is bending down and scooping up snow for a snowball; the _we’ve come_ is cut off as Connor clocks him right in the face, point blank, a perfect shot. He goes down like a log, feet flying out from under him with the surprise of the impact. For a second, Connor’s filled with the sweet adrenaline of a perfectly landed snowball, and then he realizes Evan’s not getting up, and scrambles over to help. 

“Shit—Evan, sorry, was that too hard, I—”

The second he gets close enough to touch, Evan pops up with a wicked smile and a fistful of snow, grabs Connor’s jacket, and fucking pours the snow down the front of his shirt. 

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Connor says. The discomfort is only outweighed by his indignation at Evan’s dirty tactics. “Oh my _god_ , I fucking—you fucking piece of _shit_ , come here, you cheating little fuck—”

Evan gives a shout of victory and takes off running across the yard, Connor close on his heels and pelting him with snowballs. 

Half an hour later, they declare a draw, both of them soaked, freezing, and exhausted. They abandon the half-finished snowman to go inside, put the tea kettle on the stove, and go upstairs to get changed. Evan throws Connor a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt without him even asking, and the casualness of it all— _of course I have clothes for you, of course I already thought about it_ —warms Connor more than the tea. 

For a second, he is overwhelmed by a powerful urge, one that takes him suddenly while he’s watching Evan dig through his drawers for more clothing, the most mundane task in the world. It takes him a second to pinpoint what it is exactly, but—he really wants to kiss Evan. Wants to tap him on the shoulder while he chews his lip, hunched over his chest of drawers, wants Evan to turn around and find Connor closer than he expected, wants to close even that small distance, and just—

“Here,” Evan says, tossing Connor a hoodie, too. “It’s—um, it’s too cold for just a t-shirt.” 

But it does not escape Connor’s notice that his gaze lingers on Connor’s arms for just a second too long to be casual—not because Evan’s being obvious, but because Connor has taught himself to be hyperaware of these things—and he knows that Evan is also thinking of Connor’s discomfort with having his arms bare, that Evan has already calculated that into the equation, has taken precautions so that Connor won’t be uncomfortable. 

And then Connor is overcome by a wave of mild self-loathing, because what right does he have to be thinking about kissing this boy, this person who’s standing across from him offering him dry clothes and tea and more comfort than he’s found in another person in a very long time? Evan is his friend—his good friend, probably the best friend he’s ever had—and Connor is making it weird by thinking about kissing him when his back is turned. Not even to mention that Connor, who can’t even close his bedroom door without wanting to punch a wall, probably shouldn’t be thinking of kissing anyone, period. 

“Thanks,” is what he says, accepting the hoodie, and he goes to the bathroom to change. 

Evan is noticeably shorter than he is, and a little broader in the shoulders, but the clothes mostly fit fine. Connor’s wrists poke out from the sleeves of the hoodie, just enough so you can see where the scarring is the worst, but he thinks that if he ignores it, he’ll be okay. If it gets too bad he can ask if Evan has a bigger hoodie, or anything with longer sleeves, but—it’s just Evan. It’s nothing he has not seen, has not confronted and been unafraid of. 

“Oh,” Evan says when he comes downstairs just as Evan’s pouring the tea. “You. Um. You look nice.” And then he turns back to the tea, but he keeps sneaking glances at Connor out of the corner of his eye, his cheeks a little pink. 

“I—thanks?” 

Evan shrugs, hands him his tea without looking at him. And for a second Connor thinks _seeing me in his clothes did that_ , and he wonders if maybe, just maybe—

But the thought is ridiculous, and so they drink their tea and watch something stupid on TV, and the moment passes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no one, and I mean NO ONE, is allowed to put lyrics from do you want to build a snowman in the comments. 
> 
> -my [Tumblr](http://iaquilam.tumblr.com/) is here! follow for updates on my now-irregular updating schedule, and also a lot of complaining  
> -post for the fic is [here](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is) as always  
> -that part in does anyone have a map? where connor and evan are both onstage and they both mime getting ready in the morning and look in the mirror with the same kind of beat-down expressions and then walk down to the front of the stage together and that parallel gives you a glimpse into how similar they really are??? SMASh that kudos button if you agree  
> -need an assassin? leave a comment. I'll be prepared to kill a man for you if you do  
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


	21. Interlude (Evan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Another update for your reading pleasure....I think you're going to like this, especially the interlude ;) howeveR, this update has not been proofread like...at all. because I'm hopping on a plane in a few hours and I just didn't have the time to look through and edit and I get that this is the Ultimate Writing Sin, but literally I just didn't get to it so if you find a mistake pls leave a comment and lemme know so I can fix it. 
> 
> second order of business: I'm going back to school tomorrow (hence the plane) so updates will go back to being quite sporadic after this! if it takes a while for the next chapter to be posted DO NOT DESPAIR! I am committed to finishing this fic and so pls keep checking for updates bc they will come eventually!! I will try to be more consistent than I was last semester tho!
> 
> ok that's it! this interlude goes to Evan! let's see what he has to say

On New Year’s Eve, Evan stays at home, just as he always does. This year, though, he doesn’t have to assure his mother that he’s going to be fine home alone, and he doesn’t feel like he’s a deficient excuse for a teenager who has no friends and no parties to go to. This year, he turns on the TV at ten o’clock and settles down next to his mother with a bag of chips and a bowl of salsa, and watches the livestream of all the people in Times Square. 

“This has been quite a year, huh,” Heidi says, casting a glance at Evan. “I can’t believe you’ll be graduating soon.”

“Not soon,” Evan says. “There’s still like. Another five months.”

“You’re halfway through your senior year,” she says. “You’ve almost made it, honey.”

There’s a brief pause, one where Evan, and probably Heidi, thinks about how close he got to not making it. Where, for a moment, Evan remembers squinting up at the sun, murmuring _today is going to be a good day, and here’s why._ Remembers thinking _because you’re going to let go._

“Yeah,” he says, looking away from the TV to fix his gaze on his feet. He’s wearing a pair of socks that Heidi gotten him for Christmas; one says _love m_ and the other says _y mom_. “It’s been a big year.”

“It sure has.”

And then there’s another brief pause, one where Evan is not thinking about the summer at all, one where he’s thinking about Alana calling him smart in Bio, Zoe showing up at their lunch table and announcing she was going to sit with them, Jared Skyping him to tell him he’d gotten a job, that it had never really been about the car insurance. But mostly he’s thinking about Connor signing his cast the first day of school, Connor slumped on his floor on a bad day with his arm thrown over his eyes, Connor running into him having a panic attack in the hallway, Connor ignoring the fact that Evan had pushed him away and lied, and showing up at his door to check on him anyway. 

Mostly, he’s thinking about Connor. 

This year has seen his lowest points, and his highest points, and so much of that journey has been on his own. But the parts where he’s had company, the parts where he’s realized that this is not an undertaking that is unique to him alone, the parts where other people have been able to pull him out of the holes he digs for himself, have mostly been because he met Connor. And that, despite everything that has happened this year, despite the fact that he had let go, despite the fact that he is still not too far from one of the worse breakdowns he’s ever had, gives him hope. Because he’d never thought he’d be able to pull himself out of the grave his anxiety had made for him. But he thinks he’ll be able to do it if there are people there to help him. And there are. There are. 

So as the minutes creep closer and closer to midnight, he finds himself looking towards the year with something like anticipation. 

_This is going to be a good year, and here’s why._

_Because you’re going to graduate high school._

_Because you’re learning to realize that your anxiety is not all that you are._

_Because you have friends._

_Because you have Connor._

_Because you’re you, and that just might be enough._

And then it’s midnight, and Heidi upends a bag of confetti she got at Party City into the air, and it gets in her hair and the salsa and Evan’s mouth, and the people on TV are cheering, and there’s a whole new year to live through, and he is looking forward to it. 

Heidi goes to bed not long after midnight, because she says she’s “too old to be staying up so late,” which is ridiculous, because she works a lot of night shifts. Evan stays downstairs in the living room, watching the celebrations on TV. At some point, Jared sends the group chat a video of him being very wine-drunk with his parents, rambling about how much he loves them, and Evan laughs so loudly that Heidi comes downstairs in her pajamas to ask if everything’s all right. He tells her everything is fine, and he’s never meant it more in his life. 

At three in the morning, the celebrations in California start, and he turns off the TV. He should probably go to bed—he wants to wake up before his mom tomorrow so he can make her breakfast—but there’s one thing he wants to do first, because he wants to start off the new year with something honest and brave. 

_Hey Connor, are you up?_

**yea whats up**

_Can I tell you something?_

**i’m all ears**

_Thanks_

_I would have done this in person, or at least a phone call, because I feel like it would be better to do it like that, but you know I hate phone calls and I wanted to it right away in the new year, and anyway if I’d done it in person I might have chickened out, or at least gotten really red and stuttery and stuff_

_Sorry I’m rambling!!_

**it’s all good**

**just**

**before you tell me**

**this isn’t like one of those “cut toxic people out of your life in the new year” deals right?**

_?????_

_What?????_

_Wait, like that I would cut you out of my life for being toxic??_

**lmao yeah**

_CONNOR_

_You are the least toxic person I know!!!! Why would you ever think that!!!_

**okaY a) i am the most toxic person anyone who knows me knows b) u were nervous about telling me whatever ur gonna tell me so i thought that mAybE that’s what it was**

**also I’m kinda high rn**

**pls just proceed before my blood pressure goes up any further ok**

_Okay sorry!!!_

_Okay so I’ve been thinking this for a while now but like I’ve only just come to terms with it but like_

_I like girls and boys both?_

_Sorry that was a bad way to say it_

_See this is why I wanted to do it over text_

_But I’m bisexual_

_And I wanted to tell you because it’s important and you’re important to me and I really want to work on being more honest this year and I think this was a good way to start sorry_

**why are you sorry?**

_I don’t know_

**ok well don’t be???? i’m really glad you told me, and i’m really proud of you for coming to terms with this part of yourself and being honest about something that can be frightening and difficult to talk about**

**and i really appreciate that you trust me enough to tell me**

_Of course I do!! You’re my best friend!!!_

_And like my favorite person and my everything and stuff!!!_

_Sorry that was weird sorry!!! Sorry_

There’s a long pause before Connor starts typing again, and for a moment Evan feels his heart sink, because he’s obviously overdone it, and Connor is weirded out—

**ur my best friend too**

**and like my favorite person and my everything and stuff**

**and i’m rlly happy for u**

**happy new year dude it’s gonna be a good one for us**

_Yeah, it definitely is_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he did it! we're proud of him! now go see what connor thinks of all this


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some emotional talking, some pining, some serious memeing

A good indicator of how Connor’s school day will go is whether or not he’s remembered to bring his headphones. Today he forgot them, which means that on top of it being the first day back after break, it’s probably also going to be a shitty day. Jared told him that he had a spare pair that Connor could borrow, but he won’t see Jared until lunchtime, which is plenty long enough for the day to go poorly. 

And sure enough, it does. It even takes shorter than he expected—he’s at his locker before Bio when things go wrong. 

He forgot to put his English textbook in his bag in the morning, so he goes to his locker in between Bio and English, hoping that it’s in there, and he didn’t forget it at home—there it is, that’s one less thing to worry about. He pushes the door open a little further, blocking the locker next to him, so he can shove it into his bag and run back upstairs to class, his mind already on the play they’re reading in English. Then, out of nowhere, the locker door slams shut in front of him, trapping the strap of his bag so it’s half-in, half-out of the locker. 

“The rest of us also have to use our lockers, asshole,” the guy who has the locker next to him snarls, and Connor only look at him in astonishment. They’ve been locker neighbors for most of high school, and they’ve never had problems before. 

“I—okay, Jesus, sorry,” he says, throwing the guy a dirty look and starting to put his locker combo in again. 

The guy—Connor realizes that he doesn’t even know his name—turns to his friend and visibly rolls his eyes. As they walk off together, Connor hears him say, “Every day I have to deal with this shit. I should have switched lockers back when they first put me next to this psycho.”

“Jesus Christ,” the friend says. “I would be so scared if my locker was near his.”

“Yeah, he’s never really done anything really scary, but he slams the door all the time, and sometimes he just stands there and _stares_ into the locker not looking at anything, and once . . .” Their voices fade off as they get further down the hallway, and Connor is left just _staring_ into his open locker, trying to process how the fuck he could have never noticed that his locker neighbor totally hates him. 

“Is everything okay?” Alana says when he gets to English a good ten minutes after the bell rings. Everyone looks at him weird when he slinks into class, and the teacher very pointedly marks him as tardy on the attendance sheet, but he doesn’t care. 

“Yeah, I—yeah. It’s all good.” 

“Well, you don’t look good,” she says matter-of-factly. “Do you want me to take notes for you?”

“No, it’s seriously fine.”

“You look upset, Connor.”

“Okay, Alana, I was born ugly, that’s not something I can help.”

“ _Connor_.”

“Don’t you know when to just drop something?”

Her face falls a little, and she abruptly turns away to continue taking notes in her meticulous handwriting. For a second, he just stares at her, frustration bubbling in his chest, and then sighs, deeply.

He knows that Alana sometimes doesn’t know the difference between being helpful, and being annoying. He knows she worries because she knows her good intentions are often interpreted as being nosy. He knows that what he just said was kind of a low blow. 

“Alana,” he says. 

“Yes, Connor?” she says, her voice completely neutral. 

“I’m sorry.”

She turns back to face him, her face very serious. “That’s quite all right. I know you didn’t mean it."

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He lets out another long breath. “I just found out my locker neighbor totally hates me?”

“Connor.” She frowns, and makes a note of something the teacher said on her paper. He doesn’t know how she can pay attention to both the lecture and their conversation at once. “That’s really why you’re upset?”

“Yeah, I know it’s stupid, I just—”

“It’s not about being stupid, it’s just that I thought you didn’t really care about—you know. That sort of thing.” What’s implied but not said, is this: _most people in this school think you’re a freak anyway, why does it matter if one more person does?_ Alana is far too tactful to say something like that, but he can read in between the lines, okay—he’s not in AP English for nothing.

“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I know everyone thinks I’m a freak, just—I didn’t know he thought that. Like, he thinks I’m a psycho. He was telling his friend that he should have switched lockers, and like—I never noticed. I never thought he had a problem with me. And I—”

“You’re worried that there are other people that think that?” Alana says, very gently. 

“Like. I mean. Not just other people.” Connor examines the faux wood grain on his desk very closely. “Like, if I can’t recognize that someone I see every day hates my guts, what if—”

“We don’t secretly hate you, Connor,” Alana says. “Your locker neighbor sees you once or twice a day for a few minutes while you’re at school—which, no offense, is not when you’re at your most charming—and that’s all he knows about you. We know what you’re really like. And I truly believe you’re more than your tendency to shut your locker door with a little bit too much enthusiasm.”

“Jesus Christ,” Connor says, rolling his eyes, but the weight that had settled onto his chest has grown a little less oppressive. “How did you know that was even what I was talking about?”

“I’m sort of the queen of worrying that people secretly are only just tolerating me. And you’re not nearly as good at hiding how you’re feeling as you think you are.”

“Fuck off,” he says without conviction. “Do I really slam my locker door all the time?”

“I’ve _literally_ never seen you shut it without slamming it.”

“Quiet in the back there, please,” the teacher says, and they both hurriedly face the front again. 

During French, she texts him a picture of the notes he’d missed from the first ten minutes of class, and he decides that it doesn’t matter whether or not people think he’s a psycho, because he has the best friends in the world. 

***

Wednesday is a good day; Connor gets a good test grade back, and watches the trailer for a new movie with Jared during lunch that looks really cool, and reads for Mercutio in his Shakespeare class, which is super fun, because the Queen Mab monologue is, like, the coolest thing ever. They’re the kind of mundanely nice things he’s able to take pleasure in now. A year ago none of this would have mattered, because it would have all been swallowed up in the blackness of the void he was walking around in. It’s good to care about things again. 

(If one of those mundanely nice things is Evan wearing a denim button-down that looks _really_ good on him, that is absolutely no one’s business at all, and not even something that Connor would spend time thinking about.)

But it’s maybe because he’s relishing in this new-found happiness that it takes him a bit to notice that Zoe is quieter than usual on the drive home from school. She doesn’t chew him out for being late to the car, and she doesn’t turn on music when they start driving. It’s only when the silence becomes nearly physical that he realizes she looks tired and dejected. 

“Hey,” he says after a moment of watching her stare blindly through the windshield as they sit at a red light. “Everything good?”

“What?” She startles a little, and then nods. “Yeah, sorry. Long day. It’s all good.”

“You look like shit, Zo.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You really know how to cheer a girl up.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he says. “Now spit it out, what’s up?”

She makes a vague gesture, and presses on the gas a little too hard as the light turns green. “Didn’t get a ton of sleep last night.” 

“School?”

“No, _Mom_ , everything’s fine in school.”

“Well, it’s not like _Mom’s_ going to ask, so I thought maybe _someone_ should,” he says with a little more heat than he’d intended. Then, after a moment where she doesn’t say anything, he adds, softer, “You’re always checking up on me and saying I can talk to you or whatever, I just want to make sure you know that it goes the same the other way around.”

“Mom would have asked,” she says after a beat of silence. 

“And you would have pretended that everything’s fine, because that’s what you always do.”

“Well, _someone_ has to be fine,” she says, and he has no doubt that she means it angrily, but her voice breaks on the last word, and that’s when he knows that she is very much not fine at all. After a second, she says, “Sorry. Unfair.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“No, I—”

“No, I get it. You, like—you were put in a bad position because of all the shit I was going through. And how I was always fighting with Mom and Dad and stuff. I get that. _I’m_ sorry.”

She scowls. Doesn’t reply. 

“Okay,” he says. “Turn right at the next light, okay?”

“That takes us in the opposite direction of home,” she says, nonplussed. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“I have _homework_ ,” she says, and then makes the turn anyway. 

There’s a doughnut shop near the highway entrance ramp that Connor used to go to a lot back when he had a car. Or, more specifically, that he would go to after getting high in Ellison State Park. It was a beautiful and time-honored tradition he had with himself—he regards it with a little less fondness now, mostly because it had required driving high, and driving high had been what had gotten his car crashed. But still. Sweet things cure bad feelings, that’s why he’d started doing it to begin with. So there’s no harm in taking Zoe there if she’s having a bad day. 

He gives her the directions to the shop; when they pull into the parking lot, she lets out a tired laugh. 

“Doughnuts, Connor, really?”

“Are you saying you _don’t_ want doughnuts?”

She looks at him for a moment, her mouth pressed into a thin, unamused line that’s clearly trying to suppress a smile, and then grins. “I _definitely_ want doughnuts.”

Connor tells the guy at the counter that they want half a dozen, and then lets Zoe pick out all six before ordering two coffees, paying, and taking everything back out to the car. 

“We’re not eating inside?” she asks, opening the doughnut box and pulling out a jelly-filled one. 

“I always ate them in the car,” he says. “Give me that chocolate one.”

“You used to come here a lot?”

He accepts the doughnut and shrugs. “When I still had a car, yeah.”

There’s a moment where the realization of how separate their lives had been before the past fall sinks into both of them, and then they look in different directions and hastily drink their coffee. 

“Okay,” he says after a minute. “I bought you doughnuts, so now you’re legally obligated to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Connor—”

“I also bought you coffee, so. That’s practically a binding contract.”

She takes an aggressive bite from her doughnut, and he gives her a mock-impatient look. 

“I had a weird dream last night, and then I couldn’t go back to sleep, and then it just threw off the rest of the day. And I had a test in French today, and I think I really bombed because I was so tired. And just like. You know. Back to school and everything.” She makes a frustrated sound. “I don’t know. I don’t know. It sounds stupid, but it was just a bad day. Like—I don’t know. I’m just worried about stupid stuff, and—whatever.”

“Worried about what?”

She makes a dismissive gesture, her mouth full of jelly. 

“What was the nightmare about?”

“I don’t remember,” she says.

“Talking about things lets you move past them.”

“That’s a therapist line.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, nettled, even though she’s entirely right. It’s actually a direct quote from his last session with Dr. Lee, when he had said that he wasn’t sure why talking with other people on his bad days made him feel better. “You’ve never been to therapy.”

“That’s actually not true,” she says. “I went after—you know. Last year. Just for a bit, but still.” There’s a frozen silence, where Connor can’t quite meet her eyes because—he hadn’t known that. It makes sense, he should have figured, but. Still. There’s an oppressive weight of guilt on his chest. “Actually. The dream was—about that. I mean. Not really. But I was trying to open your bedroom door, and I couldn’t get it open, and I couldn’t get it open, and the longer I tried the more I knew that something really bad had happened, and I only had a little time to get in there and stop it but the door was locked, and I was—sorry. Sorry. I couldn’t go back to sleep.” Her eyebrows are drawn together so there’s a crease in between them, like Larry’s get when he’s upset. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or anything, it’s not your fault, just—sorry.”

He guesses he’s not the only one who has some issues about having his door back. 

“Stop apologizing,” he says, and she pulls a face. 

“Sor—whatever.” There’s a long pause, and then she adds, “You ever have those moments—or, like, days—where things seem like they were before? When everything was—you know. Not for any reason, but it just kind of hits you, and it’s like you’re walking around with all that baggage still hanging off of you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I still have those days.”

“Don’t tell me whatever it is that your therapist says about them,” she says, and he laughs. 

“It might help.”

“The doughnuts are helping,” she says, and reaches for a second one. 

“Zo, I’m serious.”

“I know.” There’s a long silence, and then she says, very hesitantly, “Look. I know I could probably benefit from therapy or whatever.  Probably we all could. Hell, probably everyone on earth could use therapy. But I’m not ready to—I don’t know.” She screws up her face like she’s going to cry. “It’s not even that _bad_ , I—it’s not like what you went through, it’s not like I’m ill or anything, I just—I don’t know why I _get_ like this sometimes.”

“There are things you’re trying to get past too,” he says, and she lets out a watery laugh. “It’s not a contest of who’s the saddest, Zoe. You can be upset about everything that’s happened, it doesn’t have to mean that you’re ill or anything.” He pauses. The sweetness in his mouth has turned sour, and he takes a swallow of coffee to wash it away. “Remember on Christmas, when you told me that just because I’d been going through things alone doesn’t mean I had to keep doing things alone?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Don’t you dare give that advice back to me, Connor.”

“Jesus Christ, let me finish. All I’m going to say is that just because you’re used to pretending to be okay doesn’t mean you have to keep pretending you’re okay. And whenever you’re ready to talk with someone about it, I’ll be here. With doughnuts. And a referral to Dr. Lee, if you want it.”

“Fine,” she says. “Thanks. Can we stop talking about our feelings now?” She hands him her phone. “Pick some music or something. Tell me about that movie trailer you watched with Jared.”

He picks a song, and they talk about stupid things until she eats a third doughnut and proclaims herself stuffed. On the way home, he blares a song by Siouxsie and the Banshees, and she rolls down the windows so that the freezing air whips against their faces and tangles their hair together, and Connor feels completely, irrevocably, recklessly _alive_. 

When they get home, Zoe parks the car in the driveway, and then looks over at him. 

“Hey, Connor,” she says. 

“Yeah?”

“We never used to do stuff like this. Just the two of us. Together. Just because.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad we do it now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

***

“Can you come over after school?” Evan asks during lunch on Friday. Connor is instantly alert. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just forgot—sorry. I’m, uh—trying to be more honest? I didn’t forget to take my meds, I think it’s just a shitty day, sorry.”

“Oh,” Connor says. “Well, you’re allowed to have those. I can come over. Not like I have anything better to do.”

Evan laughs kind of awkwardly, and Connor thinks that maybe Evan thinks he meant it like _I would do something else if there was literally anything else to do,_ when in fact he had meant it like _there’s literally nothing better in the world than hanging out with you_. But he can’t find a way to clarify that without it sounding weird, so. He just laughs awkwardly back. 

The thing about his feelings for Evan is that they hit him at weird times. The thing about his feelings for Evan is that they mostly feel like they always did—mostly he’s just possessed with the enormous affection he’s always felt for Evan—but sometimes, in the in between moment, when he’s not paying attention, they swell up and burst in his chest like a soap bubble. And then he’s just paralyzed with the warmth and hugeness of it, with the helplessness of how much he _likes_ Evan, how much he wants to be around him. And then the moment will pass, and he’ll regain his sanity, and he’ll be able to look at Evan without squinting again.

The other thing, which he is trying very hard not to think about, is that Connor, in the most basic sense of the term, _actually has a chance_ now. Because Evan isn’t straight. And that doesn’t mean that Evan wants to be with him, or should be with him, or doesn’t deserve something better, but the fact remains that _Evan isn’t straight_ , and so there’s a chance. And yet all that does to Connor is make him agonize over the whole thing even more, so he’s just trying to ignore it. 

When he gets home, he tells Cynthia where he’s headed, takes all of his textbooks out of his book bag, and replaces them with a bag of m&ms, two nature documentaries, one of the Hemingway novels Cynthia had gotten him for Christmas, and, on an impulse, the notebook and pen Zoe had given him. It’s hardly the first time he’s done this; he and Evan had a routine by now—if he’s having a bad day, Evan will cover him in a million blankets, turn on the TV for ambient noise, and make tea before talking Connor through everything that had happened to him that day until Connor is lost in the sound of his voice and the knot in his chest has loosened. If Evan’s having a bad day, Connor will bring chocolate and documentaries, order them take-out, and give Evan one of his earbuds so he can play them both music until Evan falls asleep, at which point Connor will get out a book and read until he wakes up, or Heidi comes home, whichever comes first. 

Today is no exception: Evan is already in his pajamas when he opens the door and pulls Connor inside. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says. 

“I already ordered the pizza,” Connor says instead of _you’re welcome_. “It should be here soon.”

“You,” Evan says, smiling at him, “are the best person in the whole world.” And he says it without stuttering at all, and it makes all of Connor’s insides light up and twist around and do something really funny that makes him feel like he swallowed the sun. 

“Yeah, I—I mean. I— _whatever_ ,” he says, feeling himself flush, and in his head it sounds like _I care, I care._

When Evan falls asleep listening to The Smiths, Connor takes out the sketchbook and the pen, and starts doodling. The first few pages are just scribbles and weird little faces and bubble letters, but once he gets the feel of the pen, he starts actually drawing things. The wilted flowers in the vase on the coffee table. The last slice of pizza in the box. The crook of Evan’s elbow as he reaches up to tuck a hand under his head. The way Evan’s fingers curl around the edge of the blanket. The curve of his eyebrows when he frowns in his sleep. Small things that aren’t recognizable as Evan until you put them together. 

It feels good to be drawing again. 

Eventually, he moves on to different subjects, fills a page with small, meticulous drawings, and tears it out. When Heidi comes home, he leaves it facedown on the coffee table with _drew u something_ scribbled on the back. 

The glowing feeling in his insides keeps him warm for the whole walk home. 

***

When he visits Evan over the weekend, he sees a page full of careful drawings of trees taped to the otherwise bare walls, and his heart leaps into his throat. It’s a ridiculous reaction, but, but— _still._

Evan put his drawing on his _wall_. 

***

“I thought we could have a movie night tonight,” Larry says, and Zoe instantly raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Since your mother’s gone out, and we have the whole evening to ourselves.”

“A movie night?” Zoe says. “Like, all of us? Together?”

“Of course,” Larry says. “Connor, I rented some more Tarentino movies.”

“That sounds cool,” Connor says with a shrug, and Zoe turns her incredulous gaze on him. “We should do it.”

It’s a Friday night, and Cynthia has gone out to one of her dinner parties, and they have the whole night ahead of them. Connor had pretty much planned to sit in his room and listen to music, maybe text Evan, maybe sneak outside to smoke later, but—Larry is trying. And Connor had decided to try too. So despite how disbelieving Zoe seems to be, it looks like tonight is going to be a movie night. 

“Okay,” Zoe says, drawing out the word so it’s appropriately dubious: _okaaaay_. “This should go well.”

“Zoe,” Larry says, “I don’t want to hear that attitude.”

It’s not that she’s entirely unjustified in that attitude, of course—it’s not like Larry and Connor have been great at spending quality time together in the past, and it’s not like she hasn’t been caught in the crossfire of that plenty of times. But things are better now. Maybe not that much better, but they’re working on it. They’re getting there. 

“It’s not like I don’t have good reason to—whatever,” she says. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

The last time they tried to have a movie night was—well, Connor actually doesn’t remember when it was. He does remember that the dad in the movie had been really shitty, and at some point in the movie where he’d said something really mean, Connor had turned to Larry and said, “Look, it’s you.” Larry had turned off the TV, let everyone sit in deadly silence for a full minute, and then said, in the most poisonous tone possible, “ _What did you say_?” And that had been the end of movie night for a good long time. But hopefully they’ve both grown up a bit. So. 

Larry pops some popcorn, promises them pizza for later in the night, and sets up the movie. The first one they watch is _Pulp Fiction_ , because Larry says it’s a classic and changed the course of film history. Connor actually really likes it; Zoe has to look away for a couple of the scenes but other than that she does too. After that there’s a spirited discussion about which toppings to put on the pizza—Zoe is pro pineapple, Larry and Connor are anti pineapple—and which movie to watch next. Connor wants to watch _Django Unchained_ , but Zoe’s already seen it. 

“So see it again,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. 

“It’s not all about you, Connor,” Larry says repressively. 

There’s a brief silence. Zoe lets out a loud sigh and sits back in her chair, a resigned expression on her face. Larry and Connor look at each other for a very long time, Connor trying his best to swallow his sense of injustice at Larry’s reaction. It bubbles at the back of his throat for a moment— _he’s always trying to villainize me, he’s always trying to set me up for failure_ —and then, finally, he forces it down. 

“We can watch something else,” he says, and Zoe looks staggeringly grateful. 

And white noise buzzes at the back of Connor’s head, and he can feel his nails biting into his palm, and he doesn’t want look at Larry, but it’s fine. Connor can bite back his anger if it means Zoe can have a peaceful day with the two of them. And maybe Larry will learn to bite back his contemptuous comments soon. They are getting better at this. 

They get through two more movies without incident before it gets too late to keep watching. Connor goes upstairs to change into his pajamas while Zoe and Larry polish off the popcorn. As he’s coming back down to the living room, he hears them talking, too quietly for it not to be about him. He pauses halfway down the stairs, frowning as he tries to make out what they’re saying. 

“—no, it’s just nice that we can do stuff like this now,” Zoe is saying. “Like—normal people stuff, y’know?”

“We were normal before,” Larry says, and, hidden in the dark, Connor rolls his eyes. 

“The fact that you acknowledge that there was a ‘before’ means we weren’t,” Zoe says. “I’m just saying it’s nice that I can be around you both without you biting each other’s heads off, okay? Can I just be happy?”

“Of course you can,” Larry says, very gently. “I’m glad you’re happy. I—know how you—suffered. Because of how your brother and I have been around each other these past few years. I know it hasn’t been easy, Zoe.”

“He’s suffered because of it, too,” Zoe says. “He’s really happy that you guys are getting along now, too.” There’s a long silence; Connor’s about to keep going down the stairs when she adds, “It hasn’t been easy on any of us, Dad.”

“I know.”

“Connor’s really trying.”

“I know.” Larry clears his throat. “I know the way I’ve dealt with his particular set of problems perhaps hasn’t been the best, and that’s between me and him. But you have to understand that the way I view these things is—a result of my upbringing, and so on, and—I’ve just been doing my best. That’s the most any of us can do.”

“And we’re getting better.”

There’s another pause, and Connor starts to noisily come down the stairs so they have time to start talking about something else before he comes back to living room. It’s weird to hear them talking about him; they’ve been talking about him behind his back for years, and he’s always tried not to listen because he was so sure they were talking about how much they hated. But now that he’s actually listened in on them, not even Larry was that critical of him. And he knows that things have changed, that everyone is less resentful than they used to be, but—still. He can’t help but wonder if they’ve always hated him less than he thought they did. If the silence was more about not knowing what to say. That doesn’t make the help he didn’t get more excusable, but it does make it more understandable. There’s a difference there he can’t quite put his finger on. 

And it would help if Larry would say these things to his face. But maybe it’s enough for now to know that he at least thinks them. 

The white noise buzzes itself into a whisper, and then into nothingness. 

***

**[EvanHansen has made a group chat with AlanaBeck, ZoeLovesJazz, and FuckKik]**

**EvanHansen:** Hi guys!!!!

**FuckKik:** not that i’m complaining but why are we excluding jared 

**EvanHansen:** Okay if you let me actually type the next thing I was going to say maybe you would know!!

**EvanHansen:** Sorry that was rude!!! Sorry Connor

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I LOOOOVEEEE sassy Evan pls be like that ALWAYS

**FuckKik:** ok fuck off Zoe 

**EvanHansen:** SOrry again!

**EvanHansen:** Okay, so the reason Jared isn’t in this group chat is because his birthday is at the end of the month! So I was thinking maybe we could start planning something for him since it’s coming up pretty soon!

**AlanaBeck:** Ooh, that’s such a nice idea, Evan! We should definitely start planning something for him. 

**[ZoeLovesJazz has changed the chat name to: BioChem Chat]**

**ZoeLovesJazz:** so that if he sees the chat on one of our phones he won’t be suspicious

**ZoeLovesJazz:** he’s in physics right? Not bio or chem?

**EvanHansen:** Yeah that’s right

**EvanHansen:** good thinking Zoe!

**AlanaBeck:** Do you have any ideas, Evan?

**FuckKik:** can we throw a surprise party and scare the shit out of him 

**FuckKik:** pls i am begging u pls

**ZoeLovesJazz:** why so resentful of jared today, connor?

**FuckKik:** i wasn’t paying attention in french today and the teacher asked me a question and he purposefully whispered the wrong answer to me

**ZoeLovesJazz:** LMAOOOOOO

**ZoeLovesJazz:** what he have you say instead?

**FuckKik:** the section was about french cuisine and so the teacher asked me what my favorite food was and he whispered “toes” so i basically told my entire French class that i have a foot fetish

**AlanaBeck:** Didn’t it strike you as strange that the answer to any in-class question would be “toes”?

**FuckKik:** ok listen i don’t know the fucking french word for toes i just repeated the word he whispered to me and then everyone laughed and the teacher asked me why i like eating toes

**ZoeLovesJazz:** A LEGEND

**ZoeLovesJazz:** NOT ALL HEROES WEAR CAPES

**FuckKik:** fuck off 

**EvanHansen:** Can we get back to Jared’s birthday please?

**FuckKik:** for the record I do NOT have a foot fetish

**FuckKik:** sorry we can get back on topic now I just wanted to put that out there

**ZoeLovesJazz:** are you sure about that connor

**ZoeLovesJazz:** are you really sure

**[FuckKik has left the chat]**

**EvanHansen:** ZOE 

**EvanHansen:** APOLOGIZE TO HIM SO HE COMES BACK

**ZoeLovesJazz:** lol sorry it was too good of an opportunity not to take 

**[ZoeLovesJazz has added FuckKik to the chat]**

**ZoeLovesJazz:** sorry connor I’m done now, we can get back to talking about Jared’s birthday

**EvanHansen:** OKAY

**EvanHansen:** I actually have an idea now!

**AlanaBeck:** Yay!!

**EvanHansen:** What if we take him bowling? He really loves bowling, one of the things we actually used to do together before we were real friends was go bowling because he liked it enough that he didn’t mind if he was also hanging out with me 

**EvanHansen:** That sounded kinda self-pitying sorry! Didn’t mean it that way at all! Just wanted show that he really likes bowling bc I wasn’t sure if you guys knew that he did

**AlanaBeck:** That’s a really great idea, Evan! We should definitely do that!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** There could be a surprise factor involved as well! Like we offer him a ride home after school on a Friday and then we take him to the bowling alley like happy birthday!!!

**FuckKik:** yea I’m on board

**ZoeLoveJazz:** with sucking toes

**[FuckKik has left the chat]**

**EvanHansen:** Z O E 

**AlanaBeck:** Jesus Christ

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I’M SO SORRY I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF 

**[ZoeLovesJazz has added FuckKik to the chat]**

**ZoeLovesJazz:** I’M DONE I PROMISE

**ZoeLovesJazz:** JARED IS JUST SUCH A BAD INFLUENCE ON ME AND HE’S NOT HERE SO I HAVE TO COMPENSATE FOR THE LACK OF MEMES

**AlanaBeck:** So before Connor leaves again: everyone’s on board with the bowling idea?

**FuckKik:** yes

**EvanHansen:** yeah!

**ZoeLovesJazz:** yeah

**FuckKik:** zoe revenge will come when u r least expecting it

**ZoeLovesJazz:** bring it, foot boy

**[FuckKik has left the chat]**

**EvanHansen:** Okay, I guess that concludes our business!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have waaaay too much fun with the group chat scenes I am SO sorry
> 
> -my Tumblr, which is a decent way to keep up with the update schedule, is [here](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com)  
> -as always feel free to reblog [this](https://iaquilam.tumblr.com/post/163689616595/you-knock-me-out-by-iaquilam-the-printer-is)  
> -the way zoe very hopefully and timidly says, "did he say anything else?" in if I could tell her, and you can see that despite everything she's said so far she really cared about Connor and what he thought of her??? SMASH that kudos button if you agree  
> -the amount of validation I receive from comments directly correlates to how much strength I have to make it through the winter (it's SO cold guys. SO COLD).   
> -that's all, stay safe, love u


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